by Luis G. Dato
Count her as lost, no sighs can bid her love
As you have loved and through the long nights pined,
No balm she holds for wounds she will not bind
For pity even, never she thinks of
Love’s treasures which your hope in her would prove,
The doting dreams you seek in her to find.
Love’s a mirage, illusion of the mind,
And her cold, cruel heart you cannot move.
Alas, she loves not, what to her the pain
That leaves its mark each day upon your heart,
And what the dreams that, like all dreams, are vain,
Since in her world she scorns to give you part?
Call her not love! Seek not her heart to gain,
Dawn comes, ’tis time from night’s dreams to depart.