Oh Rosalind! how your presence
Lingers in my mind, the touch
Of your contemptuous skin leaves a mark,
Love of your cold lips which have now
Forsaken me scars what beats within.
Hope, oh sweet hope, that you are
Beatrice, withholding your feelings
For fear and not for absence
Longing as I do, yet careful,
Willing, as I am, and yet more.
Or are you Juliet? Harking for
What you cannot have, the eternal
Damsel, destined to a doom lit just down
The path a ways and approaching.
Pray, oh pray as I pray, you are not
Annabel, as cold and gone as the sea
By which you lie in eternal respite.
Or, perhaps , you are not Rosalind.
You answer not to Beatrice, nor Juliet,
And Annabel is nothing more than an
Obscure reference from a time long gone.
Nay, you are none of these, immortalized
By other men in their hearts and by their pens.
You are something more, immortalized by the
Reverberations in my scoundrel soul
Of your voice, damning my will and whispering
Softly, in my ear: “There is no other but you.”