Were passion, pride and purity raw gold,
I'd wade in it, have fathoms to behold,
Were Beauty, grace and wisdom count in drams,
You'd sure as day surpass a million grams,
But metrics interfere with cosmic flow,
Of Love through which the grace of God doth go,
You comprehend it dreaming, to and fro.

Where charity and amity outweigh,
Propensity to stoke, kindle dismay,
The world be good and surely good be true,
And gladly more good for the life of you,
Which, like a sultry sun, emit the light,
Which doth the cauldron of passion fast ignite.

Glories be to thee my wanton babe,
Not dark could sully you, nor aeons, age,
Not Psalms, nor paeans could justice do to you,
Not fires of heaven compare to spark that brew,
Not all the fauna like the flower grew,
Of Peace, in you, a guiding passion true.

Yes, it's me, upon a pedestal,
Its becoming, actually, to be rendered tall,
And as for this assailed little stoop?
It's the people's pedestal, see my cahoots!
I'd rather be a poet than a king,
We inspire riot round Saturn's rings,
Atop the stoop, beauty suffice to ignite,
Other hearts to swoop and soar, take flight.

With a contusion sought for Love,
As care withheld by foes who smite,
Did they see me wheeling, rove?
And cover me in darkling spite?

Then thine humour penetrate,
Beleaguered fence around my heart,
Make the pupils, veins dilate,
As minds frolic, in mutual rapport,

The ****** diamond of my soul,
You sweetly, like a saint, restore,
Sees diamond as beauteous ornament,
Not a pawn of colonels war.

All that I am and that I know,
You fast revolutionised,
There is nowt I can do to show,
My thanks I have surmised.

To friends of me, I'm friends of them,
They stir the sorry heart,
My soul sits on God's diadem,
And gift of grace imparts.

Prithee tell me, O babe, of Love,
Of wonders that you see,
Veritable, a treasure trove?
Endless, as deepening sea?

Thine life as golden alms beget,
To us from all time,
Doth the pain of past abet,
Immortal in a rhyme,

Thy fearsome eyes blaze strong as sun,
I enrapt in view,
Like a leopard leap and run,
Spots an unusual hue,

How should I speak but true to thee,
Mistress of my passion,
Kindling my joy and glee,
Love, exquisite action.

In resplendent, fulsome, luscious verse,
She the bars of destiny rehearse,
Upon sweet trumpet, lyre of the Gods,
Fathoms deep the Greek upanishads,
Sings for moon, and bonny girl, and world,
Writes lightning words which hath fate sweet unfurled,
With passion in to the stratosphere, she, hurled.

Sublime her descant rings in metaphors,
Surely irresistible to adore,
A diligent and lovely little scribe,
Grafting hard to gift the reading tribe,
Shakespeare's sister, from a time before,
The invention of the modern era,
When wonder subsume to money, war.

Seized the thunderbolt and wield Zeus' fire,
Did the heroine who, dreamt, aspired,
And with it, she, like leopard, leapt and run,
In to horizons, and the setting sun,
Such zeal and zest seem fabled, but were true,
Though be it hard for mortal minds construe,
Her blood people's red not Prussian blue.

The titan of them all beget the flame,
From whence the passion bled, devotion came,
Yet fated to be condemned by old Zeus,
For giving sight of his gold fire to us,
Legendary yet you live to be,
You lived, felt love, were the highest tree,
Felled by cosmic judge, high, haughty.

Now if we are sum, then one we be,
Now if Heart choose kindred it is thee,
Now as magic crackles through the mind,
We, in love, activity refined,
All the saints and angels couldn't sing,
Of thine beauty, most cherishable of things,
Heavens trumpets, lyres couldn't play,
Justice to you, beauty of the day,
Not all the scribes of wizened, ancient times,
Could immortalise thy glory, grace in rhyme,
Nor the fires of heaven quick outshine,
The spark in you, that I want wed to mine,
Then as we be, let love rule,
So as we die, we do not fall