Methinks within each heart is but a womb,
to treasure hold, thereby conceiving captivate,
what once was sterile, infertile, desolate,
the flowered hope of love's own nurtured bloom
'tis but fair comparison to awakening morn,
whence in quietude shines Heaven's golden eye,
forsakes the abysmal chariot of night's black sky,
sheen shone, saffron paints the dew hung dawn,
thus honoured we, with one fleeting breath divine,
ides of hope abound, the heart to contemplate,
as oft, riches beyond wealth bequeathed in hours late,
neglected! then wander we, in thirst of love's rich wine,

Should thus, destiny deal four aces kind,
the ace of hearts, far better you'll find.