The sweetness of that which has yet to come—

The flowerings of Love and its dismay

When, in its claws, the one it's chosen shuns

The blossoming radiance that it displays.

For, though the Eagle's talons rip his flesh,

He stubbornly refuses to admit

That, in this category he is blessed,

And, if accepted, Love his bones would knit.

But, heedless of this sense, he soars through air,

And, pining softly, I wait for his look

That will tell what is his is mine to share,

That will save his soul from dying on Love's hook.

And so I wait for what is given some:

The sweetness of that which has yet to come.