My love is like a vile, vile weed
Encroaching every opportune hollow
Letting the seeded sorrows grow and breed
To fill the absences with howled wallow.
A flit of bees, on occasion, invade
Ransacking, with guilt, my pods of pollen
Though in taking increase in what they aid
Leaving me to shame for how I've fallen.
Spurring on it spurns the lush internal
Until variety becomes one kind
Until my love mocks the love eternal
And my weeds, and this, are all I can find:
It is better to be vile esteemed
And sow; than to reap the love of a fiend.
