Fresh morning leaves droop over branches,
As light dances with duet mood in the flickering blue;
Reflecting, saying ‘hi', as my eyes reply with a squint.
Birds in shadow with divine annoyance, chatter wild scenes
Not asked for, heard through the night.
Apollo lovingly embraces all I see
Motherly caressing, hugging fatherly,
Everything in view; turning his soft
Impacts into wondrous colour that reality
Deems too true. Yet none, I say,
Sing; produce your face, a pure as snow white
Face; lips blushing berry red with
Summers tender kiss and her gentle growth.
Humming a scent that velvet violets, surrounded
By golden daffodils, in which, a lone
Bee sups his ambrosia; swaying to and fro,
This way and that with a mysterious power drawn;
To his home, dropping a honey so sweet, sipped
And tasted, creates no sense if sense
Could ever your skin copy. Low waves,
Breathed from energetic wings, waft
Perfume upward, towards the heavens,
Towards it travels and down they look, all,
An elegant goddess, elegant as earth's season
Giving spring, birth of labouring waters
From winters devilish bite; they do gaze
And notice undoubtedly your dazzling sheen.
Hungrily grasping, as turtle-doves swoop
To gather her nest, before the break of storm.
Upon this soft green grass I pray, you lay
With me; humbly offered; while
Bellowing clouds creep forever near,
Thirsting for you to be returned to
Your throne, imbedded between the stars.
To lift you up on cupped hands
And to sleep dreamingly, residing you go.

Fling wide, my Emily, the doors of the High Ones
And fill with garlands the temples of clouds
And the breathing entrails of beasts. Let not
This sad soul, in isolation, surround your altars;
Let fellow hearts over land beloved
Of gentle green and hilly region, dear to my heavenly god,
Raise them to your benignant *****. Let black
Envy get her fill, turning her malicious breast elsewhere.
Do we not all live under one sky?
It happened as I wandered idly at sunset
In spacious enclosure, for my lyre lay limp
With strings slack. No melody, no bird of song
Came comfortably to my bed; lay aside my lyre.
Small to the eye but huge to the sense,
Marvellous in measure, my vision fain to cry.
So mighty the deception that makes
The small figure large! Rejoicing from the heart,
With you at my gaze, I happily drink nectar!
Hurt without knowing and refrain I beg.
My wings fly, and loss for all time will be my wound.

Emily, if you were mine id fly you away
I'd forever kiss, caress, adore your heart, hear me pray;
I'd play the play that drove Byron's rhyming sway
I'd worship, and believe id worship, every word you'd say.

Due care towards dismay'd vain,
Flattering smile of mine fake in disguise,
Humbled pledges gather love again,
Take leave, fly, depart happy my prize.

Song of Calliope soothe lo hearts disdain
O muse! O muse! ‘scribe my pain.

Guide my hand, produce scented rhyme for thee
I enquire divine, create a note for me.

Form sounds, ruffle the air, breathe my voice
Aurora's mysterious brown eyes condemn this choice.

This pain of joy, weaved deep, within an enchanting fairy,
Concocted potion, drunk from the lips, of my dove heavenly.

Down my cheeks, bitter tears incessantly rain
And my heart struggles with convulsive sighs.
However, when I see that gentle smile again;
That modest, sweet, and tender smile arise,
Lost in delight is all my torturing pain;
It pours on every sense a blest surprise.
Though well you read my heart and knew
How much I longed your charms to view.

While I concealed each tender thought;
Your face, with pity was sweetly shown.
Within that beauty, my fond mind sort
That love, which made your passion known.
Your sunny locks were seen caught short,
Nor smiled your eyes like a precious stone,
And behind a misunderstood cloud retired,
Those beauties, which I most admired.

My flows proper throne is that adorable face,
At times escorts her ‘mid the muses fair;
And so swells in me the fond desire apace,
As each, their beauty is than hers less rare.
So high and heavenward when my eyes do trace,
I say ‘my dove! In grateful memory you I'll bear'.
Yet unsung, sweet maid, your beauties should remain,
Pleasing, within my heart, as none shall ever please again.

Those hours of joy in which you raised our spirit
The homage you gave your love to our devoted merit

Bring back my memories of your lovely April prime
Happy your tail wagg'd to thy golden time.

Of your winter days I hope our kindness made them sweet
Your years with us, our family, believe my tears were our treat.

If now upon this day harden minds do still not believe
Perfect ceremony of truths of sadness ****'d death does weave

How, not only once, that worship you gave to us, in your merry way
Jan 3rd, a devout soul, companion'd friend, died in our hearts today.

As with my now aged right hand, like myself,
Which, has passed two plus thirty years,
With an admiring eye, scribes on this very paper,
An unobserved marvel never witnessed.
So, my maid, once again with warmth come to me,
In front of this light, portray sweet grace,
For it is only with outstretched hands for your lips,
That I may relate this true wonder to thee,
And beg for your divine voice to guide my song;
Therefore, fly pleasure, through my words.

To sense Shame; bathing in your pumping blood,
Happily creating ripples with her feet,
Paddling in and around the heart, is no new flavour.
For many, she stirs waves of embarrassment,
Then it is for the many, I speak loud of my often guest;
Just like stars on high without yet names,
I arrive upon a view I feel I should have seen anon,
Commented on at least; sung about maybe.
For it is against evil Shame that I beg you bring arms,
My pure delight, tender maid; aid me true.

A new fallow rose, for sure, I've gazed upon as a child,
With its attire of a sweet kiss in the air;
The ever-blossomed rose I have attached to my love,
And passed on to many a dainty girl;
As death of the crimson flower gently floats its petals,
Withering to the ground, I confess; have seen.
However, one single rose, from bud through its prime,
Charging towards its fair scent-lost end,
Within Time itself, for it had barely blew its wind,
Shame holds me, ‘cause no; I've never seen.

Paradise of happiness in beholding the closed maroon shell,
Till bursting its petal like an exploded nebula,
From almost the sheer weight pulling its outer most parts,
Away from itself, barely remains on its stem.
Like this rose, my ***** grows similar to the scarlet flower,
Beginning to drink the breath of a new life,
Ready to, eager to bloom, for its time had not yet come,
Waiting of its own accord to spread its wings,
Stretching out petals and opening its beauty towards the light,
Heaving with fragrance over an allotted time.

And echoing this rose, when within its prime of days,
Wills wonderfully; the whole world to view,
As too the heart; growing from a bud to flowering true;
Not once does it wish to hold and remain quiet,
For a complete desire, bids to be cherished and gazed upon.
Alas, as rose and heart walk hand in hand,
They are either picked by a love, gifted and treasured,
Or like my rose here flow their course;
Just as the sun traverses many a time across its path,
Seas accept the cascading mouth of a river,
Slowly, although gleaming with life, outshines the full moon,
Sheds its warmth and undeniable beauty.

The unseen had now become seen, and with my vision;
Shout to pluck a rose whenever passed,
For it wants to be picked; and place an image in a heart,
And its aroma in the memory of love.
For to delay and admire, such as I idly did with mine;
To stare in awe as the hourglass ticks,
Without never realising; ruins and destroys the very ecstasy,
In which you stand with joy watching.
Imploring your help, I banish Shame savouring my blood.
With your song, you cheer to peck the rose,
The flush rose; and display for all the worth it contains;
The unimaginable love for what it is,
And the heart, and your passion will forever thank thee;
For I thank thee, for revealing me my love.