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Oh, meek am I in lieu of other men,
In light of riches and good company.
But in these acts of futile social wren,
I am a character perfunctory.
But who is sad? for surely never I,
With thoughts of your divine exquisiteness
Unfailingly approaching my mind’s eye,
To soothe me with consistent loveliness.
But fear have I that you may cease to be
By nature, or woo of another’s heart.
And thus to verse I turn to quiet me,
Immortalizing you with bookish art.
Yet a fool I am, for poetry and
Cannot capture the splendor of