I do so prefer the kinder mind of creation
to one tempered in fire of strife.
She who built me hand by steady hand
she who refused light of my life
and loved me only in imagination,
who is she who sold me a tale of sorrow,
a blighted cant of rheumy tears on a misty moorish
morrow,
what keeps those present scenes alive
by paper paging hands in candle or shadow
I took to wife, never again to feel the eyes
that I loved and do love commending
me past all manner of the small and the narrow?
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