And yet prospers those fastidious growths,
Rotten hearts, filled with mirth,
Their pleasures were mine, yet crude, it all was,
Incoherent thought sure takes its birth.

The solemn truth, that which heart binds,
That which is pure, the mind seldom finds,
The earnest cycle's forgotten ways,
In blissful tenderness, everything sways.

All was his, who chose to command,
And yet laws bound, and sanctimonious it becomes,
The kingdom restricts, the cage enslaving,
And all is lost, in its drudgerious churns.

Quivers he, whose hands were blessed,
And on his forehead, A kiss was marked.
And in that gaiety, he walked unheeded,
Was there a wish, unknowingly asked?

In the cycle of eternity, pledges are made,
And all is cursed, to perish in self-pity,
Some find right, and some get lost,
Yet, who shall die, with a soul dead empty?

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