Love and time may not be commensurate:
the first, blazing fiercely, may die away
as plodding time rakes ashes from the grate,
leaving but few embers to warm the grey
remains of passion's quick declarations
of undying love, never yet made good,
but only transformed to emanations
of the soul's longing to be understood.
Where now the flames ascending into air,
soon cooled by volumes of the worlds cold breeze?
Love cannot be conditional on fair
faces, words, acts or that lustful disease
that makes us dance to natures merry tune
beneath summer's sun or cool winter's moon.
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