Subtle is the kiss of gold
Within her locks in mid-day sun
Which, juxtaposed her smile, seems cold,
And somehow dims that orb so old,
When near her in comparison.
The eyes of blue, like mid-day sky,
But never clouded, always pure,
Are deeper far than one could try
To peer into those depths, so high.
The sky proves shallow next to her.
Swift like comets, nay, like rays
Which quickly, their concourses find,
Or better yet am I to say
That even these are blown away
By my belovèd's shining mind.
Music does her language speak,
And music too, her motions strike.
All melodies, her essence seek,
Though symphonies would prove too weak
To tell us what her grace is like.
Whisp'rings told by rustled leaves
Recant the glory of her form,
And praises sung by birds in these
Give thanks to her amenities,
Thereon behalf of hearts they warm.
And winds tell woes of wretched hearts
That never did behold her grace.
Such taunted tales do they impart
Of men who were not quite so smart
To seek out that most sacred place,
That solace that I hold so dear,
A region warm and free from harm,
Where all is bright and filled with cheer,
And where I'll stay through all my years,
Within my dear, belovèd's arms.
c. April 1993
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