While a pallid eyelid of cloud obscures
	The sun's lewd glare, and Passion lies in chains,
Love's anachronistic flame will course
	With savage fervour through my covert veins.
Until, when seasons change and fetters burst,
	It springs afresh, more vital for its fight,
Consuming in its heat and zest at first,
	But mellow and sublime in leisure's sight.

It is not difficult to understand
	Why poets, or those aspiring to the name,
Should probe the mysteries of love, or brand
	Their work with glib allusions to the same.
Such lines (viz.) dribble from my common pen,
	Bland and humble lines, but in epic form.
For love has shot its pain within all men,
	Each has some tale to tell, some teacup storm,
Even if, as with me, the tale be dull:
My forecast always seems dismal.