His poem weeps but weeps with no tears, he joyfully smiles but smiles to himself In her absence, where a poignancy haunts day and night, as the muse, the paragon of beauty
he often beholds
in his sacred thoughts,
smiles as usual
but smiles, of her own,
in her celebration,
his pen is wet
but wet profusely
with incessant tears
in melancholy,
for her love and beauty
now descend not,
happily with a cadence
in his soul’s poetry;
the poetry of great joy...
