Beatrice

You were only too innocent to know

The beyond of the joy of his sick love

Only when preparing to make love

To the incestuous death

The Truth struck your heart

Only then you lived life to its excess.

And let his cold spirit

Know the dark delights of your being.

Bulbul

Aye, it was I who woke

At the dread of falsity of fancy.

Not a draught of Vintage,

Nor thy beauteous voice, thou loving bird

Could ever do him away

The real filthy bay.

The Unknown Truth

Was it the Urn who silently said,

'Beauty is truth, truth beauty'?