Tho' men with plenty have proclaimed your love
Is love of theirs, then so yours has become
Somewhat a differed love and partial dove;
Compared what they adore, mere scratch the sum.
Your radiance of skill born out the womb;
No quarter moon reflect that do you just
Nor sun that creeps in only season's bloom,
For worthy you of love, year round's a must!
Yes! I would love and let that you be you,
And I'll be shades of your own sweetest sight,
As winds of summer onto beauty blew;
To have me yours, shall compliment love's plight.

Yet if with one whom loves yours less than whole
Then from your love you give, from you have stole.