I write now for an audience of none: This muse does not my verses read, nor think What she inspires has worth. My hopes now sink Away from light, and soul turns to despair. Yet, heart is not so willing to not care: I still pray dreams of her will sonnets give, And someday muse’s smile might let hope live. Must heart admit she has ending begun? It is not absence from muse that I fear, But that lines unread cannot her smiles earn. How shall I feelings tell, when she’ll ignore All that I write? How can I make it clear How much heart hurts, to know I’ll never learn Her dreams that could future verses ensure?