I compare you to a mirror’s edge; You are cunning, as you are cutting. You are longing to distort my image, When roughness is what is in you, Ah! The pain I cannot long contain. When you are smooth and beguiling, Glistening in the moon light, my soul, My soul shall take heed of your reflection And fly from your deceptive presence.
I shall compare you to a still water’s edge; Like a pale reflection of the night sky, You do not show your depth and power.
I approached you , innocent as a victim. I stumbled, and fell. Into you I drowned.
The spiff of the lady made me wait On cold a street, at her iron gate: And though I wished not that it were For love, forlorn! I did not care That such a beauty plagued my heart. A foolish boy sings a foolish part, And hopes against a Sunday's rain To beat his odds, her hand to gain. All this, his nightly dreams to be A gentleman; but a simple man was he.
And though I was a blacksmith's son With sooty palms, I still had won A handsome prize; the village lass Whose dainty foot-falls ever pass Before the old furnace bellowing: My heart was glad; Her heart would sing "Harmonious Blacksmith, dear Handel, My joy is full, my heart is a bell!"
So long, these my great expectations, Worked with earnest preparation, Should only fail, and in my losing Should I gain my pretty darling. Susana, like a song-bird singing Pretty lines, my pains relieving: "Harmonious Blacksmith, dear Handel, Your joys are full, and all is well!"
So save me one last cheerful quip, And say it was for dear old Pip!
Asking questions already answered in a desperate quest to clinch a dream by the skin of a tooth. That is how life is like, for any one born in a cage.
You see the ends, and know the forced limits, but when darkness falls and your eyes fail you, you ask the slave-master
"How far will you let me go?"
Oscillating like a pendulum, eternal in the timed swing: you are set to and fro, and that is all you know.
You can imagine, because your mind is free, yet you are bound, and that is all that shall be.
Looking for the escape is to find life's exit sign, and hold your breath and hope the theologians were right: better forgiveness, or oblivion, than the cage.
That is what it feels like, when you stand before the forked road - both sides well taken - and ask the classical question: "Which shall I take?"
Not knowing which is better; to be the rash fool, or the calculating one.
In the end, a choice must be made, and the coward will choose - for that is what one is, who doesn't - to watch and wait, pretending to himself to calculate untill the night falls once more, and the owls hoot their dismay.
Then he shall peer into the black, and be miserable in his heart: He shall ask the slave-master, "How far will you let me go?"
But he shall get no reply, because he is that same master, and he is his own slave.
He shall be quiet till the moon sleeps, and the owls give way to song-birds, and the refreshing rays of sun illuminate the metal bars of his mental cage.
Then he shall sigh on his fate, and look down both roads, asking, "Which shall I take?"