Ever misty morning light,
Darkest shadows taken flight;
Pale colors casually blent,
Golden blooms, most luscious scent!
Especial, pure and true,
Feel freshness, morning's dew!
Peach tree grove under a hill,
Just at sunrise, hush and still.
And on the horizon, skies of pink;
Into lush fruit the teeth to sink.
And branches are dark and rise above;
Song of bird from limb thereof.
Eagerly begins the march of day,
In the old fashioned way.
Such beauty, how so rare!
Sun sparkles in her hair.
Grove sunrise--sweet Georgia peach,
Like a lady, soft of speech;
And also full of every grace;
Sweet memory's resting place.
The BBS has the tracks of how your gestations condescend,
your keyboard is where your fingers time and again stumble.
Numb and dumb, short-winded nib despairs of the scutwork's end;
In regard to your mumpsimus, succumbing to ink inundation, prostrate paper ceases to mumble.
Once arises the idea of an art creation, ineffably blent
or the one free from the rough-and-tumble,
pristine pulchritude, original mindscapes' most faithful fere,
shrinks and shrivels the way Venus dodges factitious smear.
Rising to the dawn,
Grateful for the present.
Glowing yellow, the sky,
Rejoices in its joys- reservedly blent.
Sitting by the beach, past noon,
Soothing tranquility in the air.
The Abode, one with horizon, azure,
At peace it be, when within are all monsters' lair?
Standing in the rain,
Drenched in all despair.
All up above is gloomy grey,
Its sorrows it weeps, agony in its share!
Through those tears, a smile,
Kindled a fire, its warmth- hope.
Even the curve of seven colours,
Bottling bygones, spurious smile- trope!
At the sky up above, I look, I say,
"Whom has it done justice? Credence, dark dolours!
Everything you were, I was! Your beguiling visage- varient.
And yet there I am, underneath your only changing colours!"
Let larking bliss on zephyr wings descend
And meadows fill with gleeful mirth and song;
The proud aurora’s sparkle then amend
With daisies spread in an ambrosial throng.
The cheerful gods pour nectar into grails,
And the Elysian Fields unveil their trails.
Not made by inner storms in wet lament,
Nor wrung in waning light at lonely hours,
But dressed in asters and with lilac blent,
Alluring hungry bees to laden flowers:
In such attire was passion brightly born,
Swathed full in beams of love and never lorn.
The fragrant bed where bashful muses lie
To lose the world, forget and softly doze
Away for hours is yet the same place I
Stole your first kiss and gave you a red rose.
I judged the bow of Cupid too benign
Before I won your heart and you had mine.