He took it, glistening, dark amid the glass,
With shadows leaching, calling to and fro,
He knew its call, its siren-singing power,
For only he could all its workings know.

No true love potion ever could be made
That binds one to another 'gainst their heart,
But potions that can bring true love's true sight
Will show the way, and few thus joined will part.

He made it, deep within his secret rooms,
From bitterness, sweet hope and dark despair,
With words that brewed inside him for a year,
And, held inside the bottle, one long hair.

She'd clung to him, when he had seen her last,
Her tears upon his chest, his on her face,
He did not say it then, always regrets,
And hopes that this will be his chance at grace.

So on this night, when all the darkness called
And brought him to his true love's lasting bed,
He took the potion, called her name. He cried,
And in the morning, like her, he was dead.