Hair like fire-wood, solid oak that flows,
The lass who hath permeated my dreams.
Lips thick with words of truth, color of rose,
The lad who hath tortured my heart with schemes.
Her hair like the tangled roots of my love
And his eyes that most sincerely entreat.
These are all diff’rent souls which I write of,
Each as enchanting, Every one as sweet.
Though if to me came a divinity -
If the essence of You loved me one day -
Form of grace, a promised affinity,
My tongue would still be required to say:
“Alas, my dear love, thou canst not be mine,
I’ve loved too many to be only thine.”
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