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The sincerest love the heart might compose,
May not be born in the resplendant rose;
But falls sweet as dew, from the humble leaf,
Pluck'd from ardent flow'rs that illume vast grief;
Yet if this love is known, by God or man,
Then my love, accept!  Failure as thy plan;
For thou should face deepest sorrow as thine,
Should chance lift thee t'wards the unending shine!
So swing thy bow, tis false evil thee ward,
As thy feign'd desire is a piercing sword;
Baptiz'd through art on Oblivion's bright shore,
In death perhaps, thou should haunt me no more;
The truth in thine eyes, bids my heart forlorn,
An Angel thy be, but not without horns.

To be painted like genuine moonlight,
That spill'd from thine eyes in generous flow;
O Come, sweeping shadow, on t'ward the night!
Back'd by thy sainted sky of scarlet glow;
Rise quick, my feathers, and tempest shall part!
While violet clouds now ascend from the dark;
If Sun, or Moon!  should so hasten thine heart,
Then the skies I'll climb, as thine heav'nly lark;
My fingers sing on, with celestial voice,
To calm the fury of life's raging throat;
As through sin I'm condemn'd, and not by choice,
Then life shall take thee, if honor'd thy quote;
By infernal talent, if thee is awe'd,
Do thy dare claim angel, greater than God?

Align!  Horsemen, on this grave night of fire,
Who bear the chariot of whom I desire;
Which rides in darkness with smok'd wheels a flame,
Out from oblivion with ruinous claim;
Tis Art that's claim'd me! Thine Art is my Shame!
O Forgive!  Forgive me my Maria!
Forgive now!  Should I forget thy dear name!
Sweet Song!  For all I hear is Coletta!
Music is thy sword, and Love is thus slain,
For such cordial hearts beat only in vain;
If Art is Love, is head or heart in guilt?
Tis sin that I bloom, when she does but wilt!
To've betray'd thy cheer for the flow'r's alure,
Forsake me, Romance! For Art is my Cure!

Like the organ's pipe her voice does inspire
Horrors and alure on trump'teer's sunrise
By the stringed tongues of the devil's choir
A demon should speak in maiden's disguise!
O, desirable maid of obscure night!
How does she respond to my desperate cry?
O, How she does sing of unhallowed plight!
Where twilight's mist is but broke by her eyes
For if she not wake, I dare not survive,
I shall follow to Hell, if love requires
What love of mine burns 'gainst God's great fire!
Tis he who has sin'd t'wards her, voice deprived!
Yet spell'd in silence, none is as sincere,
as one lover's poem, that's unheard by ears.

The Flower of Leaves, does not speak, nor sing!
She breathes intensly and plays on sweet strings
The Flower of Leaves, in spring, does not bloom,
She hangs in the heat and weeps low in gloom
The Flower of Leaves, shrouds mis'ry and pain,
Yet exudes in song warm swelling disdain
The Flower of Leaves, shades but one pale green,
Yet blossoms 'neath moonlight in silv'ry gleam
She relieves, and like Great Nature, serene,
In stormless gardens passes through unseen
Sublime as rainfall, sincere as the sea,
O Heaven, such life that blooms before me!
Who only knows that which my heart believes,
In such mystique of The Flower of Leaves!