Jew #18
I would not call my love a flower
Lest she languish in the sun and fade
I could not kiss my love a brief hour
My desire is deep as Jove's high glade
I would not compare my love to day
With all the traffic of commercial vice
And nights are poor in their bright display
And drip not sweet as her in love's spice
I would not call my love a river
Lest the rains deny her, she abates
Not as supplier and a giver
Of my constant joy her heart dictates
There is no word or thought for love, poor
Images everything, hence I wait
Each hour for eternity to pour
Itself in us, finding better state
Where two are one in fact, truth and deed
And love can never more be apart
And all our sweetest shall we exceed
When are cradled heart to beating heart.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010
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