Suburbs of Pleasure
Your voice lacks that show of love that warmed my heart so tenderly
And your eyes, they carry within them a strange fire which I do not know...
You appear quick to wrath, rash and uneven tempered,
What evils do you hide from me?
You know the number of my faults, yet still don't they bear me up to you as mortal?
Mortal as I am, should you not envelope me in the summit of your tried affections?
And as I, by your own confession,
so dearly stoked that temple hidden in the tresses of your private garden,
By such a great show of love that made the smouldering heat of your inhibitions,
burn with life into a flame, with my heart in it.
Isn't it fit as it may, that I be in the suburbs of your soul and find the joy of your good pleasure?
You do me great wrong...
Do remember that what I feel in your neglect will transpire in you doubly on account of that great love which you intimated to me in your prayers
and so sealed up in some sacred oath a motion that binds our souls.