A sweet summers day, with remembrance of spring,
A throne mode of roses only fit for my king,
Made from my own sore fingertips where blood is shed from thorns,
But such an exquisite sight, even Angels and stars mourn,
For when winter arrives, such a throne will decay,
And cities will burn in the entity of a day.
All that is left is my tiresome bones
For all I could give thee was a love built throne
What good is my heart, my affections, desires?
When thee wanted empires and man-made fires.