In Wild Winds Blow The Tempest Of My Eye

I will not tarry in pursuit of love
or barter with words that retain their pride,
passion is not the birthright of the young;
in wild winds blow the tempest of my eye
though the storm is brief violently it cries
and I will voice the fire and the pain,
and weep until the death of heart runs dry,
to be blessed to drown in its pouring rain
than to argue these terms or love insane.
Unfulfilled and stacked in dulling piles;
if love be lost what joy is worldly gain,
on the naked face a painted smile
that earth and rain will wash off in the grave
when the pursuit of love took far more than it gave.