A passion wrought from lover’s hands aglow
To dash on rocks within a blazéd heart.
Two lilies twix the shores are wrench’d apart
Til winter’s face doth brim the line of snow.
And such is us, my dear. My darling beau,
Who sleeps on fragile dreams devoid of art:
In thought, I catch you veiled across the mart;
In likeness of the shadows oft you go.
So long as tender mem’ries wither not
My hands will not forget the shape of thee.
Within my soul, I flutter with an ache
From frightful visions that our hope is shot,
But Calm doth bathe me in her past’ral sea.
Your beauty lifts my spirits when I wake.
Jul 7, 2012
Jul 7, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
A passion wrought from lover’s hands aglow
To dash on rocks within a blazéd heart.
Two lilies twix the shores are wrench’d apart
Til winter’s face doth brim the line of snow.
And such is us, my dear. My darling beau,
Who sleeps on fragile dreams devoid of art:
In thought, I catch you veiled across the mart;
In likeness of the shadows oft you go.
So long as tender mem’ries wither not
My hands will not forget the shape of thee.
Within my soul, I flutter with an ache
From frightful visions that our hope is shot,
But Calm doth bathe me in her past’ral sea.
Your beauty lifts my spirits when I wake.
Request permission to use this poem