Though a mother goose may lay a dun egg,
All you do, and all you are is the sun.
Rise now, continue your art, I do beg.
A trophy of grandeur, you are the one.
Touch another heart, you have seen this love.
Reach under the grove and pick the fresh grapes.
Ascending further, your grace unyielding
can even outlast the graceful young dove.
You are the angel, art you are wielding
Yes, the others may look to the south sea,
Onto which they dream only of the north.
Unto you, true artist, your beauty's free.
Although it may seem I write this in fear,
Reviewing each statement, meter by line.
Earth has once said, you reach beyond your years.
At the close of this poem we do reach.
Man amongst man swallowed by your beauty,
and the ends of these rhymes holds much cruelty.
Zealots reach up, and begin their sweet preach.
I realize now that it is far too late.
Not I, nor he, nor she can end this pain.
Go to your love, embrace him, run to fate.