The Sight of the Angel

From the shadows of the old tree, she emerges, her form unlike any I have seen, her eyes would shame the twinkles of a thousand stars, as the rays of purity doth my sins. ''Has thee not sinned enough? for I, lie here with thy face etched in my soul''. Her cascading hair, not could the magical yarns of the Gods bear. My yearning soul looks upon thee eyes for a poesy that will never be written, a feeble flicker dawns, for thou art be not mere love, thou art a passion, by which I lay smitten. The wilt'd roots flourish as the beauty overwhelms, hath she come from God's realms.... 'tis not mine, to angst about, but dear lord, canst thou have mercy upon a poor soul, grant a wish that plagues the very nature of me?