on art

oh ye, how cruel art thee,
that i may know of all these words;
but not enough to convey still,
about thine beauty's come to hurts.

that indescribable make thee,
elusive of a very song;
and falter at your beautied tress,
that makes me pine for thee so long.

so lost in hope that one day may,
find me words not inopportune;
that i may tell thy fleeting heart,
how learned to smile, to laugh, to swoon.

but pray never prejudice be,
that fore thine heart betrayeth truth;
how fibs be stead and fast as thee,
mar words and life be cursed uncouth.

mine flailing, desperate, grasping hands,
for perfect nouns alike thine soul:
but maybe never destined be,
thy know of this pining 'til old.

and even then, hast thou not seen?
how pretty words can misconstrue?
where failed my writ and wit are now,
i pray intent of art comes true.