‘Love’s life is long, when even ardor’s spent,’
Sayeth he, to the green-eyed lady; ‘loves
Not stiff enough to cling, nor linens rent,
Urge passion rest its bonds like anger does.’
Sayeth she, dear, dark lady, ‘in your eyes,
Not mine;’ ‘time heals,’ sayeth he; ‘as its tears,’
Sayeth she, ‘leaves in trail a scar then dies.’
What time doth pain usurp when heartbreak bears
To ruin; decant the pure, vile poison
of what we say we know, then choose love’s last,
best draught, bursting stream of nature’s foison,
Her store of livery, varied, cruel and vast,
For love, when labor’s lost, no heartache masks
When love no favor does nor favor asks.

Thomas Murphy is a U.S. citizen, a journalist, and a long-time resident of Brazil. He is a graduate of Georgetown University in Washington, D.C.