Thou in thy joyous nature are to me
As naught that is not thou could ever be.
Far rather would I contemplate thine eyes
Than any deepened mirror of the skies;
The fluid notes of songbirds to my ear
Are not the sweetest music I can hear—
Thy sense and feeling never graced the birds,
As my heart thrills to thy most tender words.
The mountains' rolling meadows lose their grace
Beside the elven contours of thy face,
And even radiant Summer cannot seek
To match the smooth warm color of thy cheek.
Though I look out upon the stars at night,
Thy countenance still sparkles twice as bright,
Aglow with thy gay laughter and thy love
Which soulless Phoebe envies from above;
For thou to joy art wholly so alive,
Thou rival'st aught that Nature could contrive,
While Nature's glories I more clearly see
For loving thee, and being loved by thee.
February 8, 1988