below Isabel

with memories of my own lost love

i sit below sweet Isabel

and swat the flies below an Oak

and loathe the passers-by

for them i weep, i pour myself

into a lonesome sigh

for those who pass with just a glance

have nothing in their eyes

  and nothing left for you my love?

  or nothing but some placid thought

  that breaks your beauty down to half

  now naked in this garden

  i beg of you, dear Isabel

  think now good thoughts and pleasures

  and dream a day when god unites

  all sorrows with their treasures