Cause Poem by katarina bowman

It is the cause; it is the cause, my soul;
Let me not name you, you chaste stars,
It is the cause. I’ll not shed her blood,
Nor scar that white skin of hers than snow…

…I know not where that promethean heat is
Those can thy light resume. When I have plucked thy rose,
I cannot give it vital growth again,
It needs must wither. I’ll smell thee on the tree.

I must weep, but they are cruel tears. This sorrow’s heavenly,
It strikes where it doth love. She wakes.