I call my Dulcinea Abelard,
As Lady Mary Pope with measures pli'd...
But my vain hopes are pixel-pacifi'd,
My hard lust mock'd with Science still more hard.
This time I am in error, he is not:
The Ghost hath been outdone by the Machine;
The Orders of Routine and Subroutine
Far better shelter Virtues passion-fraught.
Comfort superior in its coldness,
The consolation of Technology
New Paraclete buildeth for this Abess,
Inhuman Truth, bodiless, setteth us free...
So unlike Christ, even in metaphor,
At once more sterile, hence, that much more pure.
Pandora Petipateia
Cathexis of what-is-this, key in hand,
A click unlatcheth casement of sapphire...
Hope flieth out, in my face! I could have plann'd
For her assault, but as a moth to fire,
Divining peril, nonetheless drew near.
Distraction and Temptation beauteous
With wingbeats strafe me. O, what else is here?
I cry and curse with Joy made curious.
And here's another Dream, another Love,
Another common Passion too few share.
These wishing stars that shoot forth all are cross'd:
I snap the box shut, just quickly enough
To trap within that wise straggler, Despair.
X marketh th'spot where all my treasure's lost.
The Price
I wrote these lines only five years ago:
"She who always insisteth on the truth
Must learn to live with many things (forsooth)
She doth not like." Is't better not to know?
Is ignorance true bliss? Maybe 'tis so,
To dream kissing confession from your mouth
To mine...abruptly end my vain pursuit
Of you in some soft space. Fools won't hear "no,"
But now, uncertain whether you're alone...
And sav'ring hope you wonder same of me...
My blood's suffus'd with foolishness until
One love be justifi'd by th'other one,
Assurance you nor I are truly free.
Here. I'll lay down your worth: my pride, my will.
Rosamunde del Shore A.S. XXXII