Poem for December 11, 2030

WHAT are to me those honours or renown

Past or to come, a new-born people's cry?

Albeit for such I could despise a crown

Of aught save laurel, or for such could die.

I am a fool of passion, and a frown

Of thine to me is as an adder's eye.

To the poor bird whose pinion fluttering down

Wafts unto death the breast it bore so high;

Such is this maddening fascination grown,

So strong thy magic or so weak am I.