You are my sacramental palace, O queen,
Domicile where my love have been
Waiting. Would I guess your name,
My dame, I will call you mine-
If you lovingly could be keen
To call me yours. I have seen
And looked love in the blinking eye,
You! My sacramental tarbanacle, dry
Of complaint, soft like an infant's palm,
Tender tendril of yam sprouting, sly
So gracious that I gasp wryly, 'why?'
Sagacious serpent gliding so high.
To capture my soul and wean it
Of hate. You career my heart beat
Not with clinical vessel so slow.
But with your voice smoothly knit
In sequence of all of its heat
A spectacle of a marveled kindred spirit.