Jan 2013
A name. A name as it just is, but one t'at is so dear
to my heart-th' glint of my dreams,
th' tempest of my soul. Th' wave of my life,
th' tide of my *****-and how bound to my heart-as t'ey art!
Th' glide of my tempest, th' water of my drought-in t'at
simpering stain of th' past-thou wert but my sole emblem
of imagination. Thou wert th' only thunder to my heart-
and my benign indulgence-thy words wert to me my kingdom,
my most earnestly desired kingdom! Thou wert but to me so near-in t'at
affronted fright of my being, thou wert my enigmatic master
and ardour. How thou comforted me!
And how thy charm was but so near!
My prince, my love!
I was but in a striving trance-but as soon as thou reached my handth-
and pressed me so tenderly to thy chest-o!
How I was entangled in a haven of imminent soliloquy.
And my eyes-my very eyes, watched t'ose shadows of bubbles-
and t'at splash of foreign doubts, drift, drift away-like a busy wind,
trying to escape its shrieking rims: how t'ose fears and drears
astoundeth me no more!
And thee,
How replenishing, andth becoming thou art to me!
Vanquished areth now t'ose thoughts unsure-in thee I witnesseth nothing
but pleasure! Thee-thou art, and just thou art, is my warmth and
fiery treasure-just thee, my love. Thou art th' blood t'at feeds my veins!
How thy first words art but fresh in my memory-thou blesth my morning,
and its sublime meekness, but its kisses art as fervent as thine not-and would I
still be gripped by its dangling, mystical fear.
And t'ose rainbows of falsehood, how t'ey snickered-hark to t'eir deceit,
and flakes of malice-hark now! I was so entranced by t'eir speeches, and
blinding emotions, so captivating in t'ose years of insincere heat, but no more!
No more shalt I give my life to 'em-to endue 'em with my glows of aspiration
as heretofore. I would be clever t'is time-and fleet as I like th' pouring rain-
beware ought 'ey to become, of my festive storm!
But thou-as majestic as th' morn's melodious dew-caught my love in a burst
of eloquent second, and lock it in thy memories, heart, and salubrious
weather. How thou gleamed my life-my very life!
T'is life t'at was isolated by flushes of unripe redness-
unlike t'ose taints of glamorous roses-fake, indolent shapes as t'ey are,
scattered along t'ose innocent bushes, and am but afraid t'ey shalt
survive not-and wither shalt t'eir robust leaves, from t'at ample
sadness bestowed guiltlessly on 'em. How t'eir glistening surfaces
shalt be left no more!
Thou art my only jewelry-and th' atonement of my surly sins-
knight to my armour-my warm, neglected armour, how soft and epic
thou art! And thou wilt be by my side-as fatefully'th it been decided,
and how miraculous it wouldth be to me-my very prince, my own,
my own thee! And shall beginth just t'is journey-our very, very journey,
with no more blandnessth as heretofore-in t'is gusty time of year,
as I wouldth but be here with my thee-my dear, my dear.
to my heart-th' glint of my dreams,
th' tempest of my soul. Th' wave of my life,
th' tide of my *****-and how bound to my heart-as t'ey art!
Th' glide of my tempest, th' water of my drought-in t'at
simpering stain of th' past-thou wert but my sole emblem
of imagination. Thou wert th' only thunder to my heart-
and my benign indulgence-thy words wert to me my kingdom,
my most earnestly desired kingdom! Thou wert but to me so near-in t'at
affronted fright of my being, thou wert my enigmatic master
and ardour. How thou comforted me!
And how thy charm was but so near!
My prince, my love!
I was but in a striving trance-but as soon as thou reached my handth-
and pressed me so tenderly to thy chest-o!
How I was entangled in a haven of imminent soliloquy.
And my eyes-my very eyes, watched t'ose shadows of bubbles-
and t'at splash of foreign doubts, drift, drift away-like a busy wind,
trying to escape its shrieking rims: how t'ose fears and drears
astoundeth me no more!
And thee,
How replenishing, andth becoming thou art to me!
Vanquished areth now t'ose thoughts unsure-in thee I witnesseth nothing
but pleasure! Thee-thou art, and just thou art, is my warmth and
fiery treasure-just thee, my love. Thou art th' blood t'at feeds my veins!
How thy first words art but fresh in my memory-thou blesth my morning,
and its sublime meekness, but its kisses art as fervent as thine not-and would I
still be gripped by its dangling, mystical fear.
And t'ose rainbows of falsehood, how t'ey snickered-hark to t'eir deceit,
and flakes of malice-hark now! I was so entranced by t'eir speeches, and
blinding emotions, so captivating in t'ose years of insincere heat, but no more!
No more shalt I give my life to 'em-to endue 'em with my glows of aspiration
as heretofore. I would be clever t'is time-and fleet as I like th' pouring rain-
beware ought 'ey to become, of my festive storm!
But thou-as majestic as th' morn's melodious dew-caught my love in a burst
of eloquent second, and lock it in thy memories, heart, and salubrious
weather. How thou gleamed my life-my very life!
T'is life t'at was isolated by flushes of unripe redness-
unlike t'ose taints of glamorous roses-fake, indolent shapes as t'ey are,
scattered along t'ose innocent bushes, and am but afraid t'ey shalt
survive not-and wither shalt t'eir robust leaves, from t'at ample
sadness bestowed guiltlessly on 'em. How t'eir glistening surfaces
shalt be left no more!
Thou art my only jewelry-and th' atonement of my surly sins-
knight to my armour-my warm, neglected armour, how soft and epic
thou art! And thou wilt be by my side-as fatefully'th it been decided,
and how miraculous it wouldth be to me-my very prince, my own,
my own thee! And shall beginth just t'is journey-our very, very journey,
with no more blandnessth as heretofore-in t'is gusty time of year,
as I wouldth but be here with my thee-my dear, my dear.
