Oh, dearest child, why callest thou on me
As grim as I must yet before thee stand?
For surely it is I who envy thee,
What stands to fade, that I should stay my hand?
Thou marvels by the proclamation, true,
By tongue far mightier than sword could dare,
That I, albeit Time, must steal from you
The touch of one so priceless and so rare.
Wouldst then virtue not be the common thing?
Would not thine hand yet hold a greater trust?
For what could I provide Death would not sting,
That even I should not become as dust?
Indeed, should bliss yet stand eternity,
What wouldst thou have but love to trade with me?
[This message has been edited by Michael (edited 06-09-2000).]