1967

When I see my day spent but half in tears

Oh my heart makes me foolish to trail pain.

More worthy, I to be counting my grace,

Or sing in thy own sunken tongue with pain,

Seem to sink in tears to tear to prone thee.

O! Curse to whom am curse, if cause be man.

Thou cries to catch, thy mirrors shows thine chase.

Of rift, April made more me through Gabon,

And France led a good pub like honor dinner,

Then Switzerland for goodness crowned me prince,

London announces my leave unaware,

Making me lose my muse finding my breast.

Sun, shine the more heaven that leads this hell.

If red be rose, then beauty is wicked.