Yonder looks misery peels hearts giving

Prey wasted on a dream giving fates

A play laid in storybook poems

My friends let us move on

To see past time requires more than eyes

Fight of pray on a ship passing fast

Night in the please seeking diseased

Strikes fast as the last of love passes

Light calls to fame ghost play

Died inside the bride of going his way

Cried at the slave only a naive pride

Within a moment to give was it sin

Outside walls wail in mental jail

Before the dawn we move on to be

Door in the hold closes and folds

Stay in her weigh water she takes

More in gold a fleeting soul turns pay

Desires in hours of lonely pass truth

Retires by the fires of desire and youth

Low it deceives as grieves want and need

Pyres in hours upon the spirit relieves

Rose she comes as one of the fruit of the grave

Knows a place faces erase pale of stone

Vine in time makes for the crime of being alone

Blows a crisp kiss as the bliss of nether foam

Divine as we go in show upon drama placed

Wine taste from the cup of grime in the waste

Flows like stars in mobile airs going past

Dine so fine in mink replaced by ramble and rod

Spring intersects in wet and guest upon a shade

Fling a cross on amber and lost lest of test

Way in shade lest not played on mystical beam

Wing as it will sand and kill in blood drained

On a play who will stay to honor the write

Run into fate as later and late dress the stage

Drop inside a wanting pride where to live

One a sandal and true as blue makes eyes cry

Say in the cost of no one lost a tree in smoke

Way to roll stroll past deceive a strong last wrong eve

Foes in hope slow the slope of weather to form

Stray lest in the bay so wanted as it is wrong

Strewn in stone left all alone on hill so cold

Sown her soul in a foal retained by grace laced

Lot in markers cast like the past of a path laid

Forgot in colors termed a learn of shadow saved

Throne leaves the white in maser bright a sorrow tries

Trouble passes in hours of grip left cold before the dawn

Shade of all that is owned left upon the fire of life

A lone to the scrip of master falls in halls of hero paid

Cup tipped as the wine runs out to follow home done

Author Notes
He was born Edward Marlborough Purcell at Bredfield House in Suffolk. His father, John Purcell, assumed in 1818 the name and arms of his wife's family, the FitzGeralds.

This name change occurred shortly after FitzGerald's mother inherited her second fortune. She had previously inherited over a half-million pounds from an aunt, but in 1818 her father died and left her considerably more than that. The FitzGeralds were one of the wealthiest families in England, and they inbred as well: FitzGerald's father boasted of being descended from a FitzGerald, and he married his first cousin. Edward FitzGerald later commented that all of his relatives were mad, and further commented that he was insane as well, but at least aware of the fact.