It is abandoned.
The vain hope.
Pity. I shall be lonely another year
Elegance ye do not have,
but some small ingenuities
and a most irregular timing.
That I will give you.
My blood is calm.
No gashes here.
“I shall be stout, strange, in yellow stockings
even with the swiftness of putting on.”
Or at least ’till, in my weakness, I fall again.