Just when she considered it futile to stay;
The white owl lone in the belfry sits.
You say I love not; cause I do not play
This game can make one lose their wits.
But try love just once to see how it fits;
I await your consent for a plautine comedy.
So soon after letter her woe to elation flits;
Knowing not love laced with odious tragedy.
That death would choose with wondering eye;
With scorn so pompous it mocked the smart.
With grief she heard him shout and cry;
Oh, swear that never was false of heart.
With trembling lips she uttered a moan;
Bent low upon a grave of emerald stone.
Photo credits: favim.com
Posted for Meeting the Bar @ dVerse Pub