In holt sat a lady fairer than most
Waiting with golden crucible in hand
Wanting to cast an affair for to boast
She raises, and the fickle is branded
Fires dance and graceful bonnets do smolder
Aureate splashes into flame, sparks fly
“Oh why, Oh who?” He prates while taking solder
Presuming a sinful smile in dark nye
The Gilded daylight aura snaps alloys
The Foundry liquidates and departs
That flame, the ore took, leaving only voids
No longer sketched in blades split by heart
“All must bid farewell,” a gasped lament
As thoughts whirl and dashed things he had never meant.