Hush-! Slow-! I creep behind an old oak’s cover,
To witness thine gossamer-white dress, where thy supple ******* hover,
Upon this stump thou dost sit, thy little viola enacting Dorian song,
Toward this sweet melodic scent, a little rabbit is drawn.
I gaze below the evening clouds and so must wonder;
Doth thy beauty draw mighty Dionysus asunder?
Then, suddenly, mystical air doth lift thy little viola,
And the air itself playeth quickly to a hemiola!
I watch in wonder, as thou prance to and fro,
Thy golden weaves swing, thine amorous glow.
Thy dance brings you toward me, though intentions blind,
I gasp out of fright, yet am flattered to find,
Thine outstretched hand, thy warming smile.
This hand I take, enchanted in thy charming beguile.
Under a springish dusk, and so teeming with myrth,
We gallivant in a passepied, feet dragging the earth,
Eight pixies, all aglow, give soft mellow light,
While I lift thine hand and spin thee with all my might.
Two songbirds perch, singing chorus for our overture’s peak,
And at the height of their strain, my lips meet thine cheek.
Thy soft white skin, thy blushing red glow,
I close mine eyes; we settle in, soft and slow;
And the pixies are gone, the songbirds had flown
And the viola is lost, too soon overthrown,
And of thy hand I let go, thy countenance fading,
I open my eyes to see none, but an empty forest waiting.

Between two green cloaked plains;
That sensitive ***** of Albion’s demesne,
a meek, white, wooly creature does sustain.
Who formed thy mother’s mane?
Which deity of divine image,
Sculpted your milkish pelage?
Or is it by lone entropic comedy,
That from Gaia’s womb arose your geometry?

Lip-pink pedals parade down from near-ancient stems
weaving, falling into a grassy bed like toppling diadems,
or may wade into the faultless pond.
Grace of gentle spring, behold thou to see;
A cohort of rose petals circle a shining lily.

Stoic, waxen clouds reflect off the pond’s dress,
like lurid eyes savoring upon Aphroditic chest.
Verdentine trees of vibrant, leafy complexion,
look bereavedly on their naked brethren,
winter’s wrath stripped them naked at every section,
and forced their figure into cold sobriety
like Phryne’s disrobement which proved her piety.

Whilst a chromatic melody defies an overcast dew,
an idyllic elk marked by a wolf’s claw,
Takes refuge beside a waiting camassine blue,
Healing in wait, thine survivor of natural law,
wounds slowly unwounded under the cherry blossom’s awe.