Play Pretend ➳ Sherlock Holmes ¹

ov. Epigraph

　

　As oftentimes the too resplendent sun
　　Hurries the pallid and reluctant moon
　Back to her sombre cave, ere she hath won
　　A single ballad from the nightingale,
　　So doth thy Beauty make my lips to fail,
　And all my sweetest singing out of tune.

　And as at dawn across the level mead
　　On wings impetuous some wind will come
　And with its too harsh kisses break the reed
　Which was its only instrument of song.
　　So my too stormy passions work me wrong
　And for excess of Love my Love is dumb.

　And surely unto Thee mine eyes did show
　　Why I am silent, and my lute unstrung;
　Else it were better we should part, and go,
　　Thou to some lips of sweets melody,
　　And I to nurse the barren memory
　Of unkissed kisses, and songs never sung.

── Oscar Wilde, Silentum Amoris