Her Sonnet, Her Life, Her Love

And with her leaving, vainly my soul fought.
The absence no more fonder makes my heart.
In rags, my painful costume I have bought,
And as a tragic fool I play my part.

What brings a man to try and touch a star,
And cuts him down so lately in his life.
Why pluck at wounds and never close the scar,
Incised with his own hand, with his own knife.

How happily I would but see the end,
Of being haunted by those dulcet sighs.
No more incur the pity of my friends,
No sleepless nights imagining her eyes.

If I could ask one thing of God above,
I'd damn myself again to have her love..