Tonight, a sight: curtains pull, a back to the stage, your back. If there were a cause to mourn, it would be for now; for your unmet eyes, as you vanish in the cloud of autumn leaf. You know nothing of it, for sure.

But that is done, an idiot's melancholy. There is no life in a wake. Now I no longer bemoan single loves lost, but sigh of an encompassing love gained, as a sun, a moon, a thing celestial, whose gaze at once is turned to everywhere and everyone, where all murmurs of grand sweetness. This is where the day's found: its breath rubs your face in the morning. It is an embrace of greatest porportions, shed of agony or urgency; and out of this, one patiently hopes, a singular beloved will emerge.