When prudent whispers yield to quick’ning beats

And icy hands creep ‘round my falt’ring voice,

In fear I stand condemned where fortune meets,

Tempted by all, but all abstain from choice.

Each path ahead, like branches from a tree,

My eyes dart in between to guess their worth

Whilst time ticks on with no regard for me

And morrow’s fruit still falls to thankless earth.

But credence rises when night turns sun’s gaze

And mine to be replaced by wiser heart,

For our eyes cloud what can’t be seen
with haze,

For in our breasts concealed man’s destined art.

To learn to feel in spite of vision’s scorn,

To hear our fortune straight from angel’s horn.