What is love but a perfect illusion?

A fantasy without reason or rhyme.

To which we all attest our delusions

Do seem to stop the violent ebb of time.

But what sows in the dreamer's mind more dread

The gentle dream or the fear to awake?

But sleep provides more pleasure to the dead

Than the pains of horrid life to remake.

In blessed lies we all choose to enfold

The putrid mind to which love deftly fools.

The vice grip of reality withholds

On that which bitter, costly love doth cool.

To every god of mankind I will pray

That the dream of night survives to the day.