Zephyros whistled afar one Morn,

Off for the inhalation of Chloris; 

And I was certain, for but a moment, 

That I had, like some sort of Poeish Lenore,

Heard your feathers ruffling in the wind; 

O’ how I long to hear your voice.

Art thou tired? Come and sit amongst,

These limbs of Wisteria. Art thou worried?

Come and lay amongst these limbs of Magnolia. 

Art thou marred? Come and rest,

Amongst these limbs of Basswood.

O’ Primavera! How thy advent each Morn,

Commences new mercies and life,

Dancing in glory and passing in haste;

Yet with every setting of thy love,

O’ how thy winds blow, and without fault, 

I hear the flutterings of your Wings yet again; 

and again; and again; and again.

O’ how vexing this Romance has become,

My beloved, Wilde Sphinx! 

O’ when might I receive the revelation,

Of your angelic countenance,

And gaze upon each eye’s blinks.

I beg thee to meet these greetings,

With a firm step; for, descending into,

Madness has become exhausting; Sorrowful,

Obsession wrestles this weary soul of mine to,

Sleep; and, that Blasted Shakespeare, 

With his Comedy and Drama; O’ how their,

Smiles and Frowns Contort and Constrain,

And make this theatrical heart of mine weak.

When shall it end? When shall it begin?

Revive me! Revive me! Revive me!

I thought I heard a cry for aid;

But then I rolled over, drank from my cup,

Fluffed my pillow, and realized I had been,

Dreaming for the entirety of Flora’s visit.

Thus, at the end of it all, I beck Thee, 

Left, not right, The End, naught Happily Ever After, 

Terribly exiled, treacherously defeated,

Exhausted, longing, itching, hoping,

For a brush of your lips upon this tattered, 

Rugged, disfigured mouth, full of disastrous tricks.