219 - Fair lady, though my love, unrequited

Fair lady, though my love, unrequited,
Returns to smite me and, though your fickle
Hand seems unfated to be united
With mine, might we meet nightly by trickle
Of stream, in shady wooded dream? Little
I’ve known your silver-sweet moonbeamed caress;
Each new-grown corn of hope by horned sickle
Cut down around me, mown and shorn. Address
My lonely plea: surround me with your dress
Of white. Alight from your high horse, sighted
As steam that streamed from behind each prickle
Of thick-leaved burning bush. Turn back; unless
You drop in my arms, my crop’s black-blighted,
Like farms in famine. Ma‘am, my heart’s brittle.
Wed 11 Apr 2007