Depressed

When Love is finished
What solace is a woman.
When Beauty is painful
What comfort is content.

Bright sunshine turns cold
At my sight that looms ominous
To the beholder young and old
Is it so vile and bilious?

The fine blooms on the bower
At once turn coarse and sour,
At my sight they do cower
My eyes their tears pour.

Save me oh God from this love.
Is there a clean, poor hearth?
A solitary, quiet, dark cove?
It is peace in love’s dearth.