To hand is a Miss, who finds solace in me,

Then yet, why can I not stand of condolence to thee;

She whispers in my ears, fragrant airs of symphony,

Drawing nigh, the passion of my soul to the lure of dearest’s epitome.



My heart nurtures the budding warmth of the Miss’s beckoning hymn,

As the sunlit passion of our enkindled love grows dim;

You rouse the sheer nature of my once disguised dismay,

Before sorrow seals my soul and life drifts absent as it lay.



Laced gracefully upon her I see an Angel come utterly unto heaven,

And the beauty of her mind whelms the flames of my desire,

As I dream of her silk skin upon mine, unveiled of attire;

Still my eyes are yet to see the Miss’s truest form given.



I patiently wait in the deep of my blistering parched passions,

The day she will reveal herself to consume me in everlasting compassion.