A metaphor could never paint your scene–
They may show lilies in a valley deep
or how the ocean scrubs the shore so clean
as the children so close to mothers keep.
Scarcely with quill do I utter your name–
than die on paper, words then fade away
my pithy be damned it just seems the same
as all the love poems that have come our way.
Oh would that I could I might sell my soul–
to draw such splendor as I find in you
eternally damned but words made you whole
on straight to hell just to color your hue.
And as the heavens fill with stars tonight
my words I’ll write until dawn or first light.
As the moon so quiet drifts as you lie
and howl of winter slips by the door
drift my sweet lady, do sleep and do sigh
writing such words, from my heart they do pour!
Fade and keep warm in the dark of your bed
swift will I share sweet scent of your skin–
lilies compare not, through fields though they spread
to your smell and your charm source of my sin.
So ponder your dreams and when you awake
fresh as the new fallen snow in the dell
look South to my window, far past the lake
I sit here and write, of you and do tell:
My words are not meant for others to see
They worship your grace and your majesty.
A hundred scraps or more of wasted ink
Trying to tell them of your sacred bliss-
Writing words telling of you and to think
That all the while I longed for your sweet kiss.
To hold you in my arms and love you true
Sharing my life until I have no breath
With you sweet woman whom I never knew
Could occupy my thoughts until my death.
Who made her way into my soul so deep
And cast her loving spell into my heart.
Holding you in my arms so you could reap
My tender loving for you from the start.
Whisper my lover from outside your door
And I’ll whisper back it’s you I adore.
When that farmer Spring timely plants her seed
in her breast forms a soft fragile vase
seasoned over with sun and rain take heed
young Flora grows hopeful in a secret place.
Summer tills where doubt before had grown
watered with passion petals unfold in the heat
youth inhaling the scent that’s sown
senses not cool evening’s breath on Augusts’ sweet.
abrupt Fall comes in to shake the boughs of fruit
and my heart’s murmur feels too soon a tune
cruel Winter playing upon a frigid flute
an epitaph scribbled on soft petals too soon.
As seasons fade flowers blossom then die away
expel their breath to sing another day.
Oh this bright moon! If only I were so constant.
Not drifting along the darkened skies all night
And watching, with eyes ever wide in torment,
As nature’s lone insomniac in sleepless plight
The swell of the mighty sea, at his arduous feat
Of endless washing earth’s rough rocky shores,
Or gazing so solemnly upon freshly fallen sheet
Of snow upon mountain roofs and valley floors;
No– to still be as constant and still immovable
Resting quietly upon my love’s delicate breast.
Oh! just to feel forever its delicate rise and fall,
For me to never sleep, to stay in sweet distress.
That still, I might always listen to her soft sigh,
Therefore to live eternally, else eclipse and die.
Yet in solemn winter, beauty must end
And the singing of birds sure fades away
No longer in thick leaves to sit and lend
A joyous tune to the children who play.
So all the color from the world does fade
So swiftly the land becomes just one hue
Thus under the snow sweet flora is laid
The color and splendor taken from view.
Grasped so swiftly, and shaken to death
All that is lovely and warm on this earth
By the abject rue of cold winter’s breath
Still truly I say there still is much mirth:
For in my heart true, I sing soft and coo,
Thankful refrains of this joy that is you.
Should doubt high drift over my love for thee
grey gloomy cloud, disconsolate, strong reign
bleak darkened frown, portend deep misery
hide hearts resolve, beneath shadowed disdain.
Should you feel sudden cold breath of gloom,
spate of fear, black scourge upon painted leaf
quick cruelly fade love grim in abject gloom,
swift eclipse hopes hue behind shaded grief.
And would unshakable faith far be blown,
fiercely shook from loose grasp once so near
wither sweet loves blossom, thus loss bemoan
newly dead splendor, once honored then hear:
Eternally damned shall I rove and cry,
tormented ever to seek how and why.