To an ideally beautiful girl 2

Well, of course we’ll never be together.
The sophists call it destiny, your share,
When what cannot be helped is also fair.
I do not possess today (will, ever?)
A moral stance so perfect that I should
Deserve perfection of aesthetic form,
As I have found in you, as strong as storm.
It’s destiny – or not. I guess it’s good.
And you, whose whisper bent me like all powers,
Could have controlled through me the golden vine
I hold, which grows beyond the empire’s towers.
But you have held it in your hands, its shine
That spun till lost, and blind to all its flowers.
It’s ‘destiny.’ My power still is mine.