The sun glistens, thrills burning in a place without commotion.
The wheel of the water mill churns with perpetual motion.
They kneel by there still yearning with exceptional emotion.
They feel care and a stern sense of a loving notion.
The old cartwheels stop at their side and the maiden is beckoned.
The upper-class deals not with the lower side of society and separation is reckoned.
Their love keels not, though the folks dither to make them have merely seconds.
There in their eyes meet for the last time and a million words are said in nanoseconds.
The pining pain of both is a curse they bear till they meet their death.
The maiden dining in fine halls caring not for those to her right nor left.
The man slaving in the wheels of industry never as much as in her view losing his breath.
Thinking all the while how he is staving from the crutch that lifted him, his lover's theft.
The final hour of the maiden strikes diseases and plague at its height.
The young pauper writes, it pleases me to say I have acquired ten farthings this wholesome night.
Meanwhile unbeknown to he: the maiden's day turns black and her skin a cold white.
Still until his end of days, without knowing if she should receive his letters of enamour,
Still until his end of days, without knowing if she should receive his letters of enamour, he writes.