O Love,
Why’d you wait with bated breath?
For your Bright Star: a glimpse, a word, a dewy-eyed kiss?
The romance has gone, my friend, the winds restrained
It is Love that’s lost; it is Love that we miss
No one looks up at the moon these days
Neither praises the sun nor snow, for soul’s own delight
Your hands won’t dry on ink; your words won’t pierce any heart
It is cold out there; it’s a rather dark age, so blight
So blindingly lightened, the eyes are numbed
Mirrors reflect visages lost in their own baffling cries
And promises are but mere ease of the ego; wildflowers wither
On the remains of once frolicking butterflies.
You must not waste your breath on me or her
Leave your music behind; in thine Gods worth
So thou may help those who seek insight,
Spirits as happy as the dove, whose feet are still on earth.
Casually Classical 