No, that was not passion,
It was the vague tenderness
Inspired by a sickly child,
Lang syne, and moon pale nights.
The spirit sings only
When the heart is moved,
When, shaken by loves power, it trembles,
Broods, draws back, says not a word.
True passion might in fact
Have been
these pages,
That were they written in happier times
Would have appeared as tears, not verses.
