sorry poem

this is the song of youth
in may
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
when night drifts along the streets of the city
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
it tells of good old times
in mournful numbers
there's one that i once loved so much
i make my shroud, but no one knows
are you alive?
shadows lay along broadway
when the wind works against us in the dark
the hypocritic days
to what shall a woman liken her beloved