May I explain the longing in my heart
That now perfects my quite imperfect life?
A time deceptively devoid of strife,
It doth not oft betray its lack of Art

Nor lack of thee. I crave that sweetest part
Thou play”st with me–exuberantly rife
With all its charms–that sweetest touch, the fife
Who’s delicacy is thy voice… and Heart….

And eyes… what odes could be composed ‘pon thine.
And how do I contain them to a line
Or two of such an insufficient length?
I’ll write they speak of sorrow and of strength.
Conveying all the beauty of the world.
Betraying all the beauty of a girl….

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