If I had breath to give but one last word
Could love weight all my brimful heart's outpour?
Or need it sound; that ears have not yet heard
For love's familiar so; one needs not more.
Adore, would have I gasp, a vowel's gift
Tho' if my heart converts, that metric fails
For two has none to send, that deep; uplift.
Beloved, flows swiftly as tho' it sails;
As onto both the sides of love it wings,
Yet tense is past, and I'll be fervor still
So vast the feel, that in the death; love sings!
Then love let love be last the word of will.

Know then; love's word is short with many use
Tho' is the sound of hearts, and last diffuse.

O' take me off the deathly scribe! For now;
My heart does bid his bones to draw me not.
For mine new love could not neath stone, allow.
Yet pure to still relive past breath, than rot.
No grimmer fate than crawling dirt to sire
As meant for fair and sweet, not feast to dust.
Tho' laws of ashes still bids me to mire
Extend this time, then I will sleep that crust.
To reap one's source, then must have inner sight!
Then known this pith of mine; which rules my core,
Recall then death to when you lived such light
Then sure as all who lay; you'll wave me more!

O' rid me not to soil when love's too soon
May scythe withhold for love, and then let hewn.

How long until the moonlight orbs her eyes?
Since newly rose, she's grown to meet her prune
And I; a marbled sculpt who pondered wise
Had let all time within her grasp, to boon.
This cherry blossom has me stilled beside,
To wait; recalls a dream on petal'd fields
That I held one in winds with love as guide.
Yet she has bound a force from which she shields;
A wit that beauties fair had least resist.
Ah! Newer glance reveals the specs of stars;
A lover's twinkle gave a favored twist
That as the night foretells; a gain for Mars!

Her virtue met me neath the freckled night
I catch that star, which has her moons alight.

Has life no sweeter sounds than breathes your chords?
Sensations have me wild to ancient voice;
To powered wailings, of Armada's swords.
Tho' known my ears, would you'd been sailor's choice
And if so moved as I, then they'd have won.
The muse of classic notes, had they'd been sung
To tunes of angel mine when morn' meets sun
Would not had tragic end, but love that strung
With solo harps and scores of violins.
Ah! None could meet the air as your recite;
Aloud this ode, as from such tongue begins.
tho' blind to beauty owned, O' read despite!

And if so swayed as whom the pen began
then known no other song; I love more than.

Her glare has winter's icy chill within
and has through heavy breath corrupted mist
now blown the soggy air in Cupid's sin
to bite mine lips and speak none to resist.

Forgive me nots succumb to frozen shards
by love's pall-bearers, marching out her womb
O' could the coffin with the heartless guards
return and free my love? That broke to gloom.

Ah! Could such grief be warmed with mournful eyes?
The same blue dyes, which now's a deep azure,
as she did play in older, springlike guise
but has it worth; to out her iced allure?

Before the hearted tomb expels all breath
I'll plead through that I know; or spring in death.

I'm in between the festive year of new
and tied by thought within the others past;
reflecting that of love with broken rue
for pain against the clock has still out-last.

The ticks along the road to heal divert
and beat of lover's strain as tho it were,
the face of time has waned and tears exert;
from in those ripple drops I've lived a-blur.

But still hearts cling to passing seconds by
as tho' each tick were latched abound with hope
Ah! Let the new year bring new love to try
and then from out the pain will time elope?

I've done my time within the hearted hurt
now nineteen bring me love! Leave grief inert.

I write a grievance to the Reaper's will
who'll take me nether, just tho' it will be
yet hell is not my quarrel, hell's my bill
it is the season which the staff reaps me.

O' leave me when the summer sun meets blue
whilst rays respect with sprightly rippled glare.
Nor when a Winter's cold had light out-blew
for out the snow had meadows been as bare.

O' Spring! Not when the floral blossoms dream
of rainbow petals lipped that nature's birth.
Then left is Autumn, fitting; passing leaves,
then Fall I'll die, into the realm I'm worth.

O' grant me soul-consumer; seasons bide!
Let Autumn be, the scene from which I died.