It was a mutual decision, but you made it:
An unfair struggle, a one-way split.
I hold a shield now, to your foreign call:
Shy from your touch - able only to see
Your faults - touche - to say you love is not
Enough. Oh! To be Pomona with her
Vortumnus. To make sweet the bitter warm
Autumnal. Alas. The wolf of time will
Make a Saul of me (if there's anything
I can be). Ah me! Mere Echo! Lapping
The splashes by Narcissus' pond. Goshen's
Gone: the battle, never won. Summer sings.
Her brave falsetto charms the Boetian springs:
Gloria ars, non amatoria