Why in fond wanting, love flees me
And greets in content loneliness?
Frolics but steadfast not be;
Deserting me in wilderness?
In times abject, dormant it lies,
Buried in hearts' deepest mines;
When barely gleams mirth in the eyes,
Climbs up the walls like creeping vines.
Like proud kings that take on the throne,
In jest it slights me as if a pawn,
And rendering me solitary, alone,
Like fickle winds its lost and gone.