To Her
consigning all to oblivion,
& with time's flame lit apace,
I should have scorched all pride
to stand helpless
at the gates of your beauty,
at the gates of that impossible love
that I can only now confound
(as mourners do),
wherein every joyous thing
is a memory,
of the beauty I saw in you
Copyright © Ph.D Volo Von Wolfenstein | Year Posted 2014
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