Rowdy winds of passion roar
Searing tongues in anger soar
Shattering emotions passionately built
And tender hearts unevenly split.
Priceless hearts of nature’s caste
Left to rot with palimpsest taste
Of successive rage upon its face
And horrid scenes never effaced.
Feeble hands with tender touch
Bows in pains on mending couch
If these passions I only could bridle
These feeble hands would be as fit as fiddle.