There was the open window on his other side;
He felt watched by the starlight,
Felt safe in its unchanging presence,
Its steely silence.
There would be that pinkish glow soon
Creeping into his room,
Paving the way for another invasion
By a too bright sun.
There were those golden tresses,
Perfumed skin and silken dresses.
They were his nightly refuge,
The answer to his morning blues.
There was that brazen brown hair,
Its heady scent filling up the air.
It was his daily disquiet,
From it there was no respite.
There was his Astoria,
His pure panacea,
Tied to him for ever,
A tie he wouldn’t sever.
There was his Hermione,
His eternal agony,
Forbidden to him forever,
An absent endeavour.