'Twould seem that this is not a sonnet, sir,
And not a poem written to ask
Your taciturn responses don't concur
accidental hope we felt inside.
'Twould now seem that your feelings were a
As bogus as to rhyme "inside" with "why" -
And unto Love this scheme
repeats its cry
To question of your words what they imply.
As accidents do
happen, I confess
Perhaps the Willow raised her eyes too soon.
Stream to roots could not digress...
Perhaps our instruments were out of
If accidents do happen when one tries,
Then so one has, and I apologize.