I beg forgiveness fair and silent Selyne,
for the moments that the poets prey on your image.
Tying ourselves in knots romanticizing your likeness,
when you deserve a fairer pilgrimage.

The wordsmith in me cries out at this very act,
in that I salute you in this common habit.
Always in the past we brought you flattery,
in hopes of wooing maidens; we began it.

And for these reasons my eyes part curtains of glass,
to chase your soft light across the sky.
Sorrow at remembering how few times I’ll see you pass,
in these stolen moments before I die.