Wouldn't thee come forth,
Hand me thy hand and sing,
Of lover's torment and merriment,
In the disheartened spring?
Or shall thy breath awaken angels,
Who weep in silent set-stone,
Above an eternally resting,
Old man of pride and all artistic tone?
Perchance to speak of lyrical beasts,
That thy heart does not feel,
Because I see that time forsakes us,
In a promise our drunken kiss shall seal.
