Astorphil Calls It Quit

Your wonder and great beauty are not fit
To grace these pages now, but how can charm
Or budding faith compete with poet's wit?
Lord knows I would have given my left arm
And more in my long quest to earn your grace,
But you drop-kicked my heart, rearranged my life
The stars no longer call to mind your face.
To think, I yearned to have you for my wife!
The moon in sadness no more climbs the sky;
I breathe not love to you; my muse has gone
to sleep. How, then, can I well justify
Continuing in this, my futile song?
Fresh page, fresh pen, I'll write of something new:
Oh, Stella, be glad, rejoice; I tire of you.

          CHRIS FERRIANS