The interest in youth,
Is all too gullible
For my understanding.
For you have crossed a line where hurt lays dormant,
And have faced the tears of a man,
A man who has shielded your unguarded heart.
There is so much sympathy withdrawn to the shadows,
That it would feast on your torn soul.
Your torn form, and the graces unfathomable,
Of arms bare and a face as smooth,
As the silks from India.
And there is nothing to call a shape.
I have found the place in your heart,
To be as cold as steel!
To be as numb as the ice on this heart,
To be as emotionless as the monarch and his cruelty.
You once made stone as the rubies to a kingdom.
And now your shape is as crude as these birches.
I have loved with a wholehearted glance.
I loved, with all that could be centered on thy frozen place.
In the mockery of all we craved,
I am in love with only a grave.
Your beauty becomes the seeker,
The farewell to an enclosure.
I have stilled this rotten place,
And have made it a shell,
And have freed the field where there is blood.
Your death and your skies,
Have become unified.
A seed and a serpent, have been speared.
Oh, beauty,
Or whatever thou wishes to be named.
You are as the loneliest of trees,
Upon the naked shores in auras of sand,
Where will you take yourself
When you cannot even stand?
Modern Romanticism 