When one begins to sense that love is leaving,
Fear starts to grow and quickly gains his place
there by the eyes in readiness for grieving
when bootless brooks of love will flood the face.
Hope, in the day, cajoles, relieves and cheers
and lets you fool yourself all may be well.
Then, when the night grows deep, Fear reappears
and, like Iago, introduces hell.
Of late, I knew this Fear, for I had killed
the last hope I would ever have to kiss
the sweetest lady ever to have filled
the vacant heart of man with heaven’s bliss!