Twas in fickle days that came the loathing of sickle ways. At every recollection of the faces that play the masque of war, relinquishes my remembrance of the gelid shore. It was there, when my head may lay upon her breast, the only place tranquility filled my rest. When my tongue was forevermore chained by the blistering flames of grief, and to this; thy cruel endorse that has poisoned my heart with remorse. The only place I shall find refuge, is falling into your resplendent grace. As the hours growth so late, I hear the words upon hateful tongues so faint. The things that strike my ear, unfold all the things I feared. How it was so, that oft did they vanquish us with scoff. Never do we doubt, and yet they shut us out. Where am I to dwell but in the sanctum of your heart, and if thus, this conflict is soon to start. What this affection may upon us bestow, I dare not know. But in the hour that is to be stricken, I find hope in the letters you have written.