What doth lend beauty to the eyes of gods?
Cold crystals, horrid in their perfection;
What awesome power do they hold, to keep,
My heart ensnared in their false affection?

What dark doth dwell under all the glory?
That’s seen by us mere mortal folk;
Is it genuine the praiseworthy story,
That writers render with a yielding stroke?

I watch them from afar talk to each other,
They know that I do look, yet choose to ignore,
My bashful gaze that roams the sweet hard lines,
Of those supple young lips I breathe to adore.

What foreign magic do they use to keep,
My willing soul chained to the lonely mountain;
Of which they are kings, and rule, by inanely stealing,
The love they feed upon, of which I am the fountain.

I’ve been here before, basking in their light,
Others have come before, I’m not the first,
To look upon their figures, and for a while quench,
The same mutually afflicting, awful thirst.

------- Author's Notes -------

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