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My soul drifts into your tranquil harbor. An elderly pundit of testimonial probabilities attempts to dislodge your virtuous intentions from corridors surrounding your heart. With savage celerity I race the obsolete period of enduring motion to enhance the merit of your virtues. Am I in time to complete this, or forever doomed to search for a complement of your winsome charms?
If requited, I promise ever to believe any tale of your desire. This is singular the nourishments that I require, to linger, linger, and hope.
A song has an ending. The darkness surrenders to dawn. Winter sends its vanguard autumn, to lull away the summer, yet spring will never allow night to steal colors of the day, conquer, conquer, prevail. As the earth needs the sun, I need your light, even if it is the templet of a reflection toward another. I am thrilled, thrilled, contented.