If beauty could relieve its heathen thorns
Then angels' tears would not be freely shed.
If roses didn't treat us with such scorn
Then grief and I would not be cruelly wed.
The courtship of the moon and starlit sky
Is oftentimes a dark romantic ruse
To steal the sense that may have been applied
Before such beauty left our eyes abused.
Each stolen kiss upon the woodland moss
That was our bed beneath those dreadful trees
Has taken warmth and put in place a frost
And punctured me by slow and sad degrees.
Not one of us can court a moonlit rose
Without our verse becoming broken prose.