VIII

What a pleasing thought
I play with all day long
Perhaps, I’ll send you this song
Perhaps, I will not.

If I’ll send it, what
’ll be left to please and play
Instead of unsteady lay?
It seems, there’ll be naught.

If I’ll send you not
This honeysuckled ploy,
Then quickly will start to cloy
My Plutonic plot.

Tired and distraught
For trying to allay
The pain of unjust display
Methinks: to send I ought.

Yet the afterthought
Comes, neither right nor wrong,
But unreliable and strong,
Telling: Send it not.