Only natural,
That I should try this modern
Canopian form.
Tag Archives: Muse
Sonnet: His Nightingale Woman
My Love hath wings–slender, feathered things–
With grace in upswept curve and tapered tip.
My Love doth soar–swiftly to adore–
So twisting ever toward, and graceful skip.
So danceth She–round and round to thee–
Enrapt to bring us care, to bind us kept.
My Love doth know–thou, my love, bestow–
Thine Own, as did He dance and graceful stept.
For now as wed… They–Our Love hath said–
Would bear us hence anon as spectral ships;
So lovely They–so lighted, Their display–
T’would ere illuminate our Earthly trips.
And lovely, we–Love and I, and thee–
Take flight, as once I tasted first thy lips.
- For Gene Roddenberry:
And, to his memory;
Who, in all probability,
And, so very long ago,
Penned the first two lines.
Intro: Gene Roddenberry
Sonnet II: By My Love’s Sweet Words
By any song, in night, that dost thou sing,
If with thy lips shalt sing, my dearest one;
Or make to sing my soul, thy touch doth bring;
Or strong thine arms surroundeth, sing my heart.
And when doth sing thy smile, to heal, to rest;
And sing to fret the tyme away, undone
By song; yet still the finer am I blest
By music, by thy words, and by thine art.
But only thus, thy song shouldst bid me sleep–
Thy song, my shelter, sweep away the sun,
I beg of thee thy promised song, and weep
That shouldst thou hold mee fast, and ne’r us part
Until thy quiet fight–when hast thou won–
Requite the day, that thou expressed: Depart!
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 2: My Words, Her Words
By my love’s sweet words
Am I, once again, inspired.
She bringeth magic!
“By any song thou dost sing, my dearest one.
To heal, to rest, or to fret the tyme away
Only thus, that thou shouldst hold fast
And defy the daylight.”
- Writeth My Dearest
Intro 1: Held
Shall not be love that
Doth wherewith I now sustain?
And this, forever.
Sonnet II: At Rest
At last, the dawn, in perfect form, I see
So formed, a positive reality.
Its purple state, its perfect choir, unveil
To shine, inspiringly, its song on me.
With form, and measure never void, it brings
A subtle mastery of the world it sings.
Without abash, I hear it tell a tale
Of majesty, and many more such things
Which burn with glory’s power, as they shine
Upon this shadow dappled world of mine.
My dreams are splendour, as they dance–prevail
With measure, and with form, and perfect line!
And dance I shall, as light–as mirrors bright
Reflect–avails, ’til dark, ’til death, ’til night!
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 