Hark, gentle souls who grace mine humble stage!
With heavy lids and weary mind I wage
A battle ’gainst the sands of drowsy fate,
For sleep’s soft hand hath beckon’d me of late.
My quill lies restless, wandering without aim,
Its ink grown cold, its fire without a flame;
For lo, my muse hath fled on silent wing,
And left me naught but echoes when I sing.
Yet still I strive through tempests of despair,
To weave new tales from dust and midnight air;
Though art’s bright spark hath wander’d far astray,
I pen my heart, though light hath lost its way.
So hear me now, dear hearts, both near and yon,
Though wit be faint and all my strength near gone,
Know this — my fondness ever true shall be,
A gentle love, yet chaste as morning’s sea.
Platonick though it stands, pure as the dawn,
Still beats my heart for thee, forever drawn.