For Love Is What the Angels Call Dismay

for love is what the angels call dismay knowing not the longings of the heart nor can they comprehend that endless day on which these quite strange feelings had their start for men, it seems, these feeling try to hide beneath the stony face of stoic’s lie such tenderness, such joy, they can’t abide they let love drift away in lonely sigh they cannot stoop and pick such lovely blooms remove them from the beauty of their place their empty hearts but the distant tombs of loves no other lovers can replace they cannot squander this in feigned display for love is what the angels call dismay