No Cupid can ignite a latent flare
or bring to life what died so long ago:
no arrow ever notched upon his bow
has forced the most disinterested to care;
and even he must know that love’s not fair —
that time can dim the most besotted glow,
that ardour ebbs as sure as it can flow,
transforming what was bliss into despair.
I lie before you, prostrate, lacking hope,
in search of fonder thoughts than you must think
and yearning for some scrap of mindless love.
There is no traction on this slippery slope,
and when you find me balanced on the brink,
please spare me the indignity and shove.