My love's as hated as an April snow,
When newborn buds are touched by winter's kiss,
A barren stroke which grays all greens that grow,
An unrequited love which springs amiss.
Unseasoned fancies must I put to sleep
And outward show that which I should not seem,
With silent sighs my split heart's contents keep
To unlock life and joy in wondrous dream:
Our love may burnish out the fiery sphere
Projecting softened light on Dian's globe,
The tunéd sounds may sweet the atmosphere,
The more fool I to dwell in dreaming's probe.
My spirits oft make oceans out of drams:
To bark and trade my heartstrings but for grams.
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