This is no letter that Endymion wrote,
But is to one I loved, in secret —
Occasionally together, now always apart.
And thence the weight of a withered heart:
Impassioned to lobby devoid ballot or vote —
Entreating in the mouth, drying in the throat.
There’s been little to liken myself with this part
Of the world known more for aspiration than art;
Till both had no you to look upon and gloat.