A Game Of Tag ...

Having abet the sense of sight,
Let one see, let one delight,
Sans even a glance of salute,
Chided for the very attribute
At every rare little slip,
He must be abject and sore,
Light's after all hard to clip,
And it is a thankless chore.
Yet, rising over the roof,
When he does turn in,
She's left to hover aloof,
Unwarned, by her kin.
Shouldn't he aim to lessen
Her grief, by dropping a hint?
Why stash away the lesson,
And lay her open to full dint?
Is that all it is, a game of tag?
Then, surely, it isn't worth a brag.