A poet wrote, “parting is such sweet sorrow,”
A cloying sentiment I would dispute,
The fading of love spawns such bitter fruit,
Better death than to awake the morrow.
Though the fruit of love’s dawning seems so sweet,
The joy of its consumption is but brief
And rapture turns too soon to anguished grief,
For the pleasure of love is but deceit.
The promises of amorous desire,
Of endless bliss in paradise, are false,
And fruit that tasted sweet too soon decays.
Better to less fleeting delights aspire 
However artfully the siren calls,
Than to suffer love’s torment all one’s days.