Death be not of dying, how oft hath we been none?
Speak not thy speech with tongue nor heart.
O, be I not a man, nor suffer, weather ‘tis in thoughts alone
yet shed no scars, whose scars be seen?
Put flames to my emotions quench me not!
Set me free of sorrow lurking like th’ bird--
what morrow song shall sound th’ day?
Be it not in silence, to pass before yonder light dost cometh.

Merry is the stranger— what of me?
Ye heart be not of gold— my weighted heart be heavy on th’ soul
Dost pity part thy lips— Nay! Be it not on me.
What mind shall cease and o’erthrow th’ day,
how rich be thought when sold for a dagger--
how ye blushing fellows blinded are
In th’ breast of another.
On th’ side of lovers me be th’ beggar--
Who carries the sign of depression
like a noose around his neck begging for life.

Pity hast no legs to stand, be It carried by th’ others,
All remedies refuse to bow before me.
Whispers delude th’ memories of slay’d thoughts,
Again! Again! Again! --
In madness hast th’ walls seem closer than before
’Twas me gagged by th’ spirit of forgetfulness.
’Tis she th’ vanquisher of my noble name--
Dost well appear in a state be I to recover?
Oft o’ergrown be the heart into the world,
th’ trees hath rooted well, but mine be severed
Ay, to breathe from life to death unto what twisting paths--
or by some habit weep not but weep again
yet shed no scars, whose scars be seen?