The most beautiful of orchids,
Has soon met her fate,
By a dying rose,
Upon her somber face.
Her sorrow reaches to the Earth’s end,
Away from my trembling hands.
Disease and pestilence, are my only reward,
For my fleeing from safety.
Her number grew gradually,
Among the rotten many.
The many poor to which she brought herself,
Low, for a kiss,
Flooded London’s districts, and France’s cemeteries,
And made failure as her triumph.
For she dances with a sparkle to amaze,
The thwarting crowd, who reach
For the moon’s elongated arms.
I feel fate crawl upon us.
I feel the nectar unbind my wounds,
And cause misery to cease,
I am among the tragic few,
With fewer tears to name as new.
I am a man with no name,
And sees a woman with no face.
Her eyes, and her beauty
Struggles to fight the willful fight,
Beyond temptation, beyond dirt,
And so I may hold her in longer arms.
Her dreams and her woe,
Become nothingness, so slow.
Modern Romanticism 