The air weans in partings of a summer breeze
But nay if it hasn’t swept in a lovelorn fear, or some,
At which I gaze in disconcerted ease.
It’s cold here. It’s cold here. I keel, then I’m numb;
That only you’d lie your love onto me — that I’d fain
In a frenzied season’s past, a past my pain is from.
One flitting thought, a thousand strolls purged in vain;
‘Tis the consequence of your haunting face,
So sweet my perfume smells like pain.
What now? No fear, no sense, no rush, no pace,
My game carried on in unlimited breadth;
I can’t wait forever, but I can’t win time’s race.
And so, my eyes faded in recurring death,
I pass you my final requiem on the fog of my breath…