Cold comradeship do stars provide.They light the closer, inner sideOf night's vast weight, which, chill and clear,Pulls on us like some puppeteer.Its unseen threads to heads and heartsAttached, it acts us through our parts,From birth's first cry to bent old age,Upon our distant, tiny stage.

Love, at its best, wipes commonsenseAway. Much as drops will condenseFrom hidden liquid in the air, So, too, do lovers soon compareTheir temp’ratures til, happily,Their judgement fogs up suddenly.

Best not to take, yet doubt its strength,A leash with Demons at its length.

If dreams were wine, you'd be a sot.