When mine eyes near to close - for truest sleep
then best her gentled hand beside me hold
as I'd take with, her sketch into the deep
to let her fairest portrait, beacon gold.

Then into bodes of seraphs I'd have flown
and bid the high archangel grant me this;
that in his flock have one alike my own,
as only then has one bestowed true bliss.

Before the gilded counsel, I will gift
her glow that carried from the nether sphere
and blaze a shrine that'd bring an answer swift!
To match this beauty's flair, there are none here.

Then blast me into limbo! There I'd wait
for her eternal grace to be my fate.

When will decay defeat her beauty's flair?
For many - an eclipse has turned the night
and left no token seam for her to bear,
unless our maiden moon has stilled my sight.

Her grace within may blind my wrinkled browse
and render form and smile to greater wealth
and trance me in a state where she allows;
each breath of love - within it's truest self.

Tho' morning's glow appears a solar truth;
that from the amber beams her skin renews.
Ah no, I'm in the haze of lover's youth!
For I've become a temple to my muse.

Then I shall live her grandest, bright allure!
And ever young she'll be, mine eyes assure.

If my tomorrows were in summer's reach
I'd sail this day, on waves of bitter wine,
towards a newer dawn, on bluer beach
for ocean sprays, sting none to lover's brine.

The amber heated sky should melt her cold
that frozen 'neath my eyes her parting words;
another's light has won her love's remold,
let then each phrase be fed to hungry birds.

The Gulls can stomach salt I cannot bear
for they're accustomed tasters in disdain,
and pine for greater feasts, for I not dare,
but castle sands, and hide my love's domain.

Tho' if no love, there'll be no summer's day!
For all will be as bleak, as is, today.

Near the wavey waltz of beach
above are Gulls flocking by,
downward rays her beauty's peach
to carom and meet my eye.

Golden strands outshines the sands
and gazing pupils allure;
to deeply swim the ocean's hands
that cleanse lover's demure.

Winds ripple her amber dress
to homage summer's fashion
so lissom that I profess
her mine! Ashore of passion.

The hushing brine, splashes sighs
as to how her shimmer gleams
and none so ever arise
that'll match my lover's beams.

Let this diamond, kissed by sun
flow gently my love's decree
that she'll be mine, soon as one;
this rose's beauty will be.

With smile's high, and dripping eye
she exalts through salty air
"with love so vast, outdone the sky
of course! Now an eternal pair!"

In echo then, the seashells!
whom plush of Cupid's spree
foretells of ocean love spells
of her, me by lover's sea.

Could which of nature's art, out-glow her grace?
Of silver specks in night, I start with ease;
her pupils win as deeper they, than space,
should stars so blued auroral night, she'd seize!

As solar orange fuses morning sky
that but a glimpse of beauty I behold,
when dreams awake she enters then mine eye
the golden sunbursts were as tho' my mold.

If clouding vapour then above appease
and raindrops drip her hair as red as wine
her pageant dousing, even humbles trees!
For Winter's peers outdone by her own shine.

Partake above and let all plush combine!
And still would splendor short - to lady mine.

The breaths of fall have swayed the ochre glow
to age the meadow's sheen - with humbling form
then swirls the leaves in whirling wistful blow,
the rustling whispers hush - I too deform.

For I have withered - since the seasons past
as swift as tempered winds have flown my years,
I linger now between my summer's cast
to neath my coat of winter's icy fears.

As tho' to trees like oak I cling to life
in winds that gust and reap from twig and limb
and I, a dangling leaf in breezes rife
awaiting mine; own fall and hue to dim.

From autumn's mulching patter; I derive
my heart's own cease of seasons, will arrive.

If onto death's own writ, I shall assign,
no casket then entomb this hollow husk
for wood has nobler task, than shelter mine
or wreak of tales from grief decaying musk.

Nor churches kiln, atone my steep abyss
so forged and billows when - the churning yields
tho' stone is cold, the sadness, I'll not miss
then lest repose to ash in barren fields.

Let none then ember from this corpse's blaze
if fire contrives to token dust therein
resist the soot, tho' if outdone by haze
then urn of brittle make - as was herein.

Should years devalue mine - own powdered rust
let sprinkle where; the winds shall sweep in gust.