Tis a cold, grey, winter's day.
The sun's decided to stay away.
The cloud's have thought, we'll have a say.
It's bucketing down, so in bed I lay.

Bedding pulled up, warm and snug.
As cosy as,....       a bug in a rug.
My wife brings in, soup in a mug.
Feeling quite happy, to winter, I shrug.

Tis most unkind, to steal a heart
with glimpse of flesh, teasing smile.
A spell she casts, her lover's art,
in pause of time, to beguile.

With parted lips, she doth invite
a taste so sweet, from her kiss.
A lover's dance, in dark of night
shows such love, what pleasure is.

A song I hear, my heart gives voice,
and sings such tunes, my eyes rejoice,
for blind, I would in mind, perceive,
her beauty that my dreams conceive,
For blind or dumb, I still could tell
her allure, a honeyed smell,
that scents the air, with such desire,
tis warmth I feel, my soul afire.

Sweet lips, that speak of love and hate,
says what of me, for this I wait
in patient hope, tis yeah or nay,
my life she holds, my words to weigh.

Tis love that said, my helpmate be,
from this heart, these words to thee,
my mind lays quiet, for what I hear,
is such sweet sounds... Yes, my dear.

Juliet. O thy creature most perfect made,
shadowed in light, of some love displayed,
I ask thee, of simple whim, a kiss or smile
for spark of warmth, thy tender while.

I call thee thus, for what does that separate
us but some darkness, some family hate,
Nay, we tender shoots, deny what is
for that history's feud. I ask thee thus for that kiss.

See, what blood is on these hands, nay, it is none,
for sword or spear I denied, my betrayal done,
for thee is as that womb that bore and born me.
Alas I cry, Romeo and Juliet, now forever be.

If a picture says a thousand words,
then speak them all to me,
on thy breath of sweetened herbs,
your eyes, each page I see.

If a face, tells life's story,
written by love's own hand,
yours is then of such beauty,
as timeless as the sand.

If the eyes, shows that within,
then I have looked in yours,
and seen flowing, pure truth,
ebbing to distant shores.

Tis anesting, such sweet sparrow,
hath thou fleed from an icy grip,
tis springtime's warming blow,
that melts such waters, now to sip.

Tis some tunes, of squabbles in
thy nest, a gentle tugging snack,
of tasty worm, a hearty din
that chicks, with joy attack.

Alas, poor nesting sparrow,
thy chicks and you will flee,
when there comes the cold and snow,
then, I wonder where thy be.