Has life no sweeter sounds than breathes your chords?
Sensations have me wild to ancient voice;
To powered wailings, of Armada's swords.
Tho' known my ears, would you'd been sailor's choice
And if so moved as I, then they'd have won.
The muse of classic notes, had they'd been sung
To tunes of angel mine when morn' meets sun
Would not had tragic end, but love that strung
With solo harps and scores of violins.
Ah! None could meet the air as your recite;
Aloud this ode, as from such tongue begins.
tho' blind to beauty owned, O' read despite!

And if so swayed as whom the pen began
then known no other song; I love more than.

Her glare has winter's icy chill within
and has through heavy breath corrupted mist
now blown the soggy air in Cupid's sin
to bite mine lips and speak none to resist.

Forgive me nots succumb to frozen shards
by love's pall-bearers, marching out her womb
O' could the coffin with the heartless guards
return and free my love? That broke to gloom.

Ah! Could such grief be warmed with mournful eyes?
The same blue dyes, which now's a deep azure,
as she did play in older, springlike guise
but has it worth; to out her iced allure?

Before the hearted tomb expels all breath
I'll plead through that I know; or spring in death.

I'm in between the festive year of new
and tied by thought within the others past;
reflecting that of love with broken rue
for pain against the clock has still out-last.

The ticks along the road to heal divert
and beat of lover's strain as tho it were,
the face of time has waned and tears exert;
from in those ripple drops I've lived a-blur.

But still hearts cling to passing seconds by
as tho' each tick were latched abound with hope
Ah! Let the new year bring new love to try
and then from out the pain will time elope?

I've done my time within the hearted hurt
now nineteen bring me love! Leave grief inert.

I write a grievance to the Reaper's will
who'll take me nether, just tho' it will be
yet hell is not my quarrel, hell's my bill
it is the season which the staff reaps me.

O' leave me when the summer sun meets blue
whilst rays respect with sprightly rippled glare.
Nor when a Winter's cold had light out-blew
for out the snow had meadows been as bare.

O' Spring! Not when the floral blossoms dream
of rainbow petals lipped that nature's birth.
Then left is Autumn, fitting; passing leaves,
then Fall I'll die, into the realm I'm worth.

O' grant me soul-consumer; seasons bide!
Let Autumn be, the scene from which I died.

Shall I recite for you my feeling's worth?
My love-hearts count in more than all the birds,
evolving new as would their flocks rebirth
and drift like feathers, till their turn to words.

Aloft in love I gird within your glow
as tho' your warming grace reheats my sun
and breathe the sweetly breezes wings do know
and out the skies I call of love you won.

The sunsets only when in resting sleep
but I nest where the dreams are sweet and soft
and fly within this heart of crimson deep
for love is each your world, and I aloft.

If love made plumes then know they would reside
into your heart, and there will they abide.

Whilst neath the eye of night that shades of blue
and freckled stars of godly beauty marks
a gaze had sought to borrow sparks of new
that echoes through a choir of tenor larks

A twinkled hope between the love and moon
as tho' the orb has pierced it's scene within,
has been too many full, to say too soon;
a blackness starved of which could win herein.

Cliché to wish, yet wish it now will be
and placed upon celestial dots in sky
connect there one and grant it then to me
where love resides and knot these in a tie.

O' splendorous night-dream let cast such light
that renders fuse of heart to gleam a-bright!

What metaphor could meet a love-lost pain?
A dove cry only; has the breeze which hears,
and broken shards of wine could merely stain
tho' love-break shades the red off Merlot's peers.

A scarring heart has love enclosed in seal
to live a scab within the sorely chest
but challenge those; who can produce such zeal
as to remand the flow of Cupid's pest.

A winter's rose; has love's same-stem alive
tho' dormant, doubt the same love-limbs regrow
perhaps there's none that meet, that grief revive
may take them all and have ones love in woe.

No glass could break the same, no single tone
could have one's sorrowed heart, as tho' to own.