By Nirina Mignon
Amidst the darling of my youth,
Wholly wilted o’er by that gale–
That impetuous and petulant hail,
Which had not been coeternal,
Nor consanguine with the stately Four;
But is as a petty rogue, who roves
With a gait of vulgarity and
Seeks our sinful shades as treasure troves,
And consummates our union with Hades,
That unmarked grave, made barren by Our Lord.
By an figure blest I was accosted,
In whom it seemed there was no taint of errata,
None! As if oblivious of the serpentine fall,
This perfection with her oaken headdress.
Had I halted, her hand she gave to redress;
Had I feared, her counten’nce comely
Shone th’ dissolution of my cowardice.
Now I make for my day to be one of mourn,
Ashen and sackclothed under the assail
Of manners against hurriedness,
And time lost, my carnifex!