Tis a’right, maiden,
For my ingress,
Be not fear-laden,
And loose thy dress,
For life leaves limbs
Languid, pale, and frail,
To time’s fraught whims,
Which promise death’s avail
But not its approach,
Only its sealed futurity,
So allow me broach
And come nearer me –
Hurry!
Whilst the rose’s kiss is on thy cheek,
And whilst thy heart is yet not meek,
While with nectar drips thy rapture cleft,
Before gray age and time leave thee bereft!
Maiden, one knows a chief and true desire
When one wishes it expire,
As a raging encaged fire
Burns the one closest its gyre,
Hence should thee let it be free,
And send it out to burneth me!
For such a flame thou cannot tame,
Nor hide it in some wicker box,
As a crazed and wily fox,
Destroys the closet and its locks,
Else burn thee from your heart without
And you bring your own death about!
‘Tis a’right, maiden,
To receiveth me,
This world’s fear-laden,
But we needn’t be,
For amongst the death
And pain and toil,
We shall draw breath
That will not spoil,
Despite the outside malady,
We shall a house thus build of glee,
If only within you’d welcome me,
And shut the door on tragedy.

-Poyetikos