Sonnet on a pedestal

Though well-intentioned, Love should stand aloof.
In passing moments fragile, hearts may bloom
And die, as seconds crack and clocks toll doom:
The glare of Fate is cold and holds reproof.

Careless Love! Your fumbling comes to naught!
She dwells where lesser things are loathe to tread,
While I, in murky bogs, must trudge instead.
To have her heart for mine is not my lot.

For whence, shall I in low realms find one so?
Evermore, with no Sibyl for my guide,
In underworlds of solitude I’ll stride
Pondering fleeting fancies far below.

Turning from lofty heights in dolour clad
I dream of her, though dreams will drive me mad.