I can see thy sweet dismay,
when thou weepst in grief, in vain
hoping for a marvel's change
of words, of destine, of thy name.
I shout in ringlings out thy sorrow,
Come!, forget the crown thou bear, of hollow
knowledge, without wisdom, with no
recollection of thy luce, a window.
Widower of thine own grace, thou criest,
singular in thy domain, the chimes of death
are singing on thy fate, they mourn thy loss,
I mourn thy gain;
For face the Sun thou forced them to,
and they were blinded by the light,
the light too bright for their blind minds,
they're not as thee, their souls are mild.
In timeless soil thou throwest thee,
deserted beebalm, a star to be,
to be forfeit by these poor people,
to raise above them, and be vetoed.