Oh fair maiden, hear my quill as it dances tipsy ‘pon this page,
In the moon’s soft gaze, my tongue wags heavy, yet earnest in its rage.
I prithee, dearest love, do not think me mad or mere fool,
For in my heart's tempest, still doth your absence make me cruel.

Oft do I roam these shadowed halls, haunted by memories of thee,
Where every whispering wind dost seem to sigh thy name to me.
Thine eyes, twin...