My heart burns a fire unkindled.
Yearning for a heart not my own.
Our eyes meet and my breath – swindled.
Yet, the heart shan’t pick up the phone.
Listen to the poets. True their gasps
of love unreturned and touched not
by reality’s withering grasps:
a flame that burns bright till time shall rot.
Her wheat-field hair of golden locks,
eyes as blue as the deepest sea.
Do they match this coat dusted with chalk
and these ink-stained hands drinking tea?
What if her love’s already sold?
Maybe her eyes hold only scorn.
What if I have not enough gold?
Maybe her heart, mine never adorns.
What if she and I pine the same?
Speak true, o’ delectable dame!