Love’s labour’s lost, and lies so far abroad
Whilst here I sit in solitary muse
That cold reality is but a fraud,
A paradox invented to confuse.
I’ve turned my back on Fates which overawed
Far better men than I, so I’ll not lose
My sanity, but live and die a dreamer,
An exile on the isle Ottava Rima.
Health, wealth and all possessions must decay,
No matter how superb or fine they be,
For Father Time will penetrate the drey
Of every hoarder unremittingly;
The years, and then the months will eat away
My corporeal, but unrepentantly
I’ll walk on shores both warmer and extremer,
And make my home here, on Ottava Rima.
Yes, for the present, on my way I’ll wend
Without a care for humbleness or Lent,
And when my span is run and comes the end
I’ll not regret one single moment spent
Exploring this strange land without a friend,
Nor any of its songs will I lament.
Salvation? No, I’ll not seek my Redeemer,
But build my pyre here, on Ottava Rima.
Back To Poetry Index