Stormy seas, by the winding fear, calmly standing in a shy green, My heart in hope to set a clear, gazing about a peaceful scene. Miracles happen so it's seen, but none to a beauty I know, tranquil, alone, battling off the snow. My sighs, that which all I could give, a tear, a caress, or a thought, But would my gentle one just forgive, a wretch like me, happy in distraught? By this grand asylum, I'm caught, and the blooming shy abounds me, when all that I dreamt of, not to be. Charming in loneliness set, what a rose had an ill such luck? Take my palm and never get wet, and thy green, may never get a pluck. Thus, when the nightmares are struck, my heart shall keep you by finesse then on that headstone, chant me a bless. |