To Sorania,With Love
Am not an aesthetic
poet.
I've no apollos
laurel in ode.
Too fragile is my
tongue to tell your
face;
For your look I dare
to speak.
Play me that
Amphion's harp
That in your mouth
dwells
For your sake I
shall be paris
For the Helen's face
you wear
I shall draw
Menelaus up again
To Trasimene Field.
I shall seek the
Delphian Oracle
That your heart I
may fathom.
Shall I employ Seba,
the questionnaire
That the discretion
of your choice I
win.
Sorania, my Helen
I am Ovid to his
Flea
And as jealous as
Oenon
Lead me to Venus'
chamber
And your dream I
promise be.
I stand by the
promise of Jephthah
To be your Romeo in
life and in death.
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