harold smith, a romantic soul
had a desperate resolute goal
he pined for the lady emmeline
and dreamed to ask, "wilt thou be mine?"
fortune favored harold not
and brushed him aside without a thought
the stars looked down on him unseeing
and cared not for his inner being
his fellow humans likewise cared
not a whit how harold fared
in pursuit of such romance
as might be granted him by chance
the city's drawing rooms are lit
by flashing eyes and sparkling wit
amorous hints and flashing glances
in which all manner of promise dances
but outside on the avenue
are those for whom the wind blows through
sad fantasies and ragged clothes
no love song, but the croak of crows
for such as harold, in the mist
the tale has no redeeming twist
no jolly songs around the hearth
no escape from this abandoned earth
the moon looks down on her rough sibling
no teardrop from her eye is dribbling
her face is smooth, her smile is cold
at every story ever told
his humble plaint was never posed
the book on harold now is closed
owls and bats look down askance
at dreaming love's last graveyard dance
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