All human thoughts come short
Milton, Paradise Lost, Book VIII, 414
You asked me for a poem; I fail you in that regard,
For I commit pen to paper and find in myself
Only a fraud, lies designed to win favour,
Whether I wish to praise your looks or manner, with this
All seems false, and as such I throw down my pen,
And neglect to pick up your challenging glove
For at the hand that cast down the garment
All my words, no, all human thoughts come short.
With this, we end the epic run of poems today – a simple love-poem.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic