With all my temples,
And all my walls,
It is not enough.
It is not enough to speak,
Of my wishes, and my admiration,
Though, to be frugal and crude,
So thou has died beneath my feet.
I have been a devil,
For but a moment,
And made a bloodied floor.
Your eyes were looking tall,
To where I built a sculpture,
And saw its eyes,
Though they merely mocked your own.
You are never my summer,
While your shoulders are winter,
Because I cannot cry, and also die.
Oh, blessed beauty!
With your own crying eyes,
Look tall to the next statue,
For it won’t be me.
Modern Romanticism 