This love knew not the summer woods
before it turned a falt’ring page
for whispers of a blinding rage
had drowned its sights in debts of should
At breath this beast does strike and rake
with claws of adamantine time
too late, I find the claw is mine
and I alone had strangled fate
But even with a heart not prest
I now behold, by light of troth,
the majesties of seas thus frothed
and lay hope upon day’s gilded crest
It still rings true, despite the fall
no mind to mourn, no matter cost:
’tis better to have loved and lost
than never to have loved at all.