Tis him,
A jester’s fool
Of actions naïve
And thoughts naïver
Who understood
T’was never meant to be;

Tis him who knew
That you and I
being of such likeness
That You and I;
Of such distinction
Each with hair
An auburn blaze
And eyes
A singeing red
Shall never reach the nuptial hour.

And indeed.
Tis him, too, who said it absurd
That Pyramus
so gallant in
speech
so strong in mind
may ever wed a
youth like Thisbee;

If he speaks the same for us
Then alas
What chance is there that a man like I,
a man of such vanity
May ever give sanction unto his eyes
to turn-
from yours the same


So, please,
I beseech you
Wither away
You beast of temptation
You donor of pain
Whom I cannot bear
To see again;

And come time my death
Lay me by the rushing stream
Where only you shall come
To say goodbye
And from that
I shall realize
T’was never meant to be.