Ah, heart that bends beneath its weary weight,
Once spring-fed, now in autumn's quiet spate.
The fires of youth, once quick to rise and blaze,
Now smoulder slow, lost in life's muted maze.
Yet still, O still, that love untouched does burn,
A buried flame, for whom the years still yearn.
No winged hope, no spark of new delight—
But steadfast ache, unfurling in the night.
I turn to you, who know me not, nor see,
And in that shadowed silence, cease to be.