How much of me, indeed, is verily mine,
And how much is framed of that which hath been,
Of that which befell in our days intertwined,
And of that which in truth hath ne’er yet been?

Perchance doth the time in its coursing not go,
Perchance but an instant from that kiss hath fled,
The last that did carry more meaning to show
Than a parting that left but the farewell unsaid.

And vain is this torment of rhymes and of stay,
Which I fill with a life that in truth is not so,
From which I do strip thee, each and e’ery day,
Till the remnant of thee into nothing doth go.

Naught cometh but longing when bending I write,
And naught but remorse when the questions awake,
Though the sin’s been purged and set far from my sight,
Yet alone with me self may I no moment take.

Perchance for this cause is my whole self undone,
Since that witless day of that June you forgot,
When, if thou consider aright what was done,
’Twas I from the paradise that fled with no cause.

Marco Delrio