If love were formed and rendered by a God
then dearest lover, blessed have you been
for he, or she, with wand had also ****
and touched upon your cast, a beauty's sheen.

Exquisite works that I so marvel oft
as other Gods, like that whom rules the sun;
had sought to bind such glow, with light aloft,
and nightly moons, into your eyes, have won.

Your love, and God thereof, have greater worth
as love has pierced within and won my mold
residing deep, into my source of mirth,
that if no love, let Gods alike withhold.

As love that truest, must be dreamed above,
there's only one such power; God of love.

Tho' modern pen has lost a cursive touch
and words archaic; poet's old cliches,
electric type has still the phrase to clutch
and render beauty's make through sonnet praise.

Have I then prompt to key my quill to prove
iambic worth has ink for grace so rare?
Tho' words cannot do just, nor then improve
but page her beaut for those that cannot stare.

A lady's fair in metered writ, romance!
And have so in; revered poems of old
now newer peach must too afford a chance
to muse a bard, that none her flair withhold.

Let modern sonnet's ode new blush to art!
And tho' from present phrase, they still impart.

Remember me in spring when blossom's blush
and petals flair a - light in morning mists
that'll haze a rainbow hue - of flowered plush
to portrait mine as every bud untwists.

Upon the birding bath as robins splay
the warbling chirp shall voice as tho' from me
for you my sweet, in springtime bloom of may
shall hear the larking flute of my decree.

The dancing leaves shall tap and Ivy's birth
and Snowdrop's bow as daisy eyes unveils
as fragrant, olive air shall scent of mirth
that once were lost, now shrines as spring prevails.

Vernal rebloom shall stream that pulse of mine
then seek that earthly glow, and there I'll shine.

Am I alike a yoyo? Stringed and thrown
by knots around my hearted centre piece
to spin a course that's set, not by my own
but from unhappy masters, bored to cease.

Contently turning mind and heart abound,
to speed the limit, then return the aim
as tho' my thoughts of change and love rebound
within complacent discs, that they reclaim.

Life seems to whirl me like a yoyo trick
complexed entwining threads that then unfurl
to only then again with just a flick
have spun me dazed, bemused within the twirl.

I'm tied to play, confined within the same
tho' end it will, is that another game?

How shall I know my love in heaven's sphere?
As she'd have cast her barest essence form,
and hue that once was known, may not appear
nor sight anew in Eden, then conform.

My plea for her, unheard in foreign tongue?
Angelic speech may single none, but all,
and whilst the angel's realm my deeds have done
she'd fuse with higher realm, and heed no call.

Although unseen, her spirit - I have touched;
such depths the bond that death had left as strong,
and onto each of love that made I clutched,
that would eternal love with us belong.

Ah yes! Our love on earth had formed a sun!
And would in haven then, have glowed and won.

The meadows sprout alive with ochre swirls
emerging from - familiar zephyr streams
as tho' through leafage tongue an essence twirls,
but whom had sought and won my Autumn dreams.

The rhythmic chatter's one I've heard before
that drummed my infant years in Falls of old,
with sweetly moans of breezes rife from yore
then swept adrift my thoughts out through the wold.

Amid the tanned and yellow pattern leaves
a brittle patter raps upon this heart,
and blows my wonder where one's love believes;
that here unites what season's drift apart.

O' mother! Yes, it's you within the fall
returning me that love that were my all.

Misfortune's frowned at me with great disdain
and wrought the winter's frost for further quest;
to coat unseen - the stone on love's remain,
hence I in mind exhume what grief depressed.

Her grave's unjust to meet what beauty's owed,
no roman style exalts her fairest youth
if scholars old had glimpsed what grace she showed;
her tombstone would inscribe a closer truth.

That somber mason, near the date she passed
had failed to scribe my death of love to be;
for too below the ice, in urn - like cast
still bleeds of mourn, the lover's pith of me.

Upon reflection, snow has troubled none
I need no stone, when I'm already one.