Dear Me

Were this a different world, one less absurd/ My first love might have been a maid petite/ With bright eyes, flowing hair and voice so sweet/ The stars themselves hang on her every word.

Or else a shepherd lad, whose hard physique/ Would complement my own, perhaps to vex/ The jealous fancies of the fairer sex/ Who still withhold that which we do not seek.

“’Tis but a myth!” So say those who, unlike me/ Know not love at first sight— or, playing wise/ Admit a newborn child might charm one’s eyes./ But I find such a turn of fate unlikely.

“Dear me!” I sigh and, banishing my gloom/ Gaze down upon the river’s steady flow./ Reflection, comfort me, though we both know/ This mirror of the sky will be our tomb.