So sweet, I see soft starlets
Where instead your eyes should rest.
So light, your gentle hair,
When let fall, your neck caress.
So hearts, by any sense,
Should pound as mine.
So know, I will my soul to
Soar, and betray my mind.

Tis not in commitment
To love that warrants beauty,
For fickle a girl beauty is indeed, not to be bent
By sorrow and pain filled gazers and dandies,
Eyes gleaming in fleeting hope, without sense,
That their smiles, enwrapped and dependent,
Will have recompense
By her gaze, resplendent,
And perhaps, if in good favor,
Have admiration bestowed on them amorously.
But nay, beauty is a fickle girl. Alas, we love her.
So as the breeze sings melancholy,
And the leaves reflect her lips of flame,
As milky clouds remind of her skin,
When her hair is night, dark and sleek, putting others to shame,
Filled with expectation
And apparitions of loveliness,
I think of the sweet longing,
Hoping for the moment not to pass.
The sweet longing
I loved then,
For a moment,
Lingering in the agony of emotion,
In a short eternity that I underwent.

I then found beauty.
But then the lights were no longer low,
The emotions, so resplendent in ardor, escaped me.
The façade was gone after the show.
Nay tis not in commitment to serve
Love that hold beauty.
Tis in the memory of nerve,
Tumultuous as a stormy sea.
Tis in the very slow-grown enthrallment
Of her melodious voice.
Tis in the memory of through what my heart went
When I told it to her by my choice.
When I told how it was stolen by her raven hair,
By her star-drenched skin,
By her cherry lips at which I’d stare,
And the voice so in apprehension, rife with emotion from within.
Tis not in the resolution itself
Of intricate harmonies and dissonances,
So pleasing to the ear in their discord and wealth,
But in the expectations and resonances
Of this ecstasy,
That resides beauty,
Which is why I told her my love and melancholy,
Letting her forget, and proceeding to flee.
For the wonderful nostalgic memory
Of the shortness of breath,
Would by intimacy,
Certainly be put to death.

As the majestic eagle loves his air,
Climbing, twisting, up his wispy stair,
Mocking Icarus’s too-soft wings,
For power holds the raptor o’er grandiose things,
Most a splendor, ardent in his realm,
As the captain at his galley’s helm
Is one with the sea,
Do I long to be.
I would have join me now a kindred soul,
One forged in the same heart-fires, o’er crippled Vulcan’s coal,
One who in the mold, so malleable
They matched my form, quite unbelievable.
But rather than by limbs, I would be wrought, as was his heart,
By scorn from woman loved, so as to start
A passionate, burning melancholy
Transcendent of society,
So to live, as if by freedom’s feathers,
And fly the sun, no melted wax, as brothers.