(pardon me if in my)
PARDON ME, if in my pride,
O maiden of a century, yet to be born,
I picture you reading my poems,
While the moon fills the gaps in my verse with its shower of silence.
I seem to feel your heart throb and hear you murmur,
'If I were alive today and had we met he would love me.'
I know you say to yourself,
'Only for this night let me light my lamp for him at my balcony,
though I know he may never come.'