aye me

courtesy of Stratford-upon-Avon’s Celebrated son

sad hours seem long
or so the young lover sighs
in his rashness and melancholy
long written with
the heavy lightness of serious vanity
where misshapen chaos
builds well-seeming forms.

two houses, divided
ready to fall
bearing a son, a daughter
innocent of it all
until stars are crossed
and the young pilgrims meet
palm to palm
in the holy communion
of such innocent bliss

yet in the dark
eyes watch and watch
that know not peace
but hate the word as they hate hell
so furious enraged
against their soul’s hate
causing suns ancient to turn all fortune
and make one of many
who talk of dreams resting in an idle brain
to curse and cry in despair
a scratch, just a scratch!
so soon, too soon
triggering that rage
that would seal the fate of fortune’s fool

yet, in joyful sadness, a flight is made
with pleas to fortune, fickle fortune
to return all whole and well
but the mark was made
when sin from young lips were sweetly urged
and all cleverness cannot stop
that twist of fate
an apothecary’s drugs so quick
netting those lips by whose kiss
all hope subsides
and glinted steel ends love’s young life
after which what law there is declares:
All are punishéd.

What for then oh brawling love,
what for then if this loving hate
is anything of nothing
from which we first create
that heavy lightness, that serious vanity
wherein misshapen chaos
creates well-seaming forms?
Aye me, sad hours seem long.