With propensity towards affinity,
I poll all that's pleasant:

Is the appeal of chance
a naïve young woman
Becoming...
Unconstrained...
and suited with secrets,
...while sveltely casting all different colors
in accord with my admiration?

Her indifference, my exhaustion;
her short business of love, my penumbra.

Too sudden was this exposure:
invisible, yet distinguished,
and now saddled with introspection,
which seems as the sense

Tinge.