To She who loves Me

To She who loves Me

In the morrow

Hers is the Heart that I will borrow

For love Myself never have I done

But through Her eyes might my

Troubles be undone.

She, golden-eyed and fresh

As a newly plucked Rose…

How I do love keeping Roses upon Roses--

A dozen dead around my bed...

But You, My One, My Only

You I worship, truly, wholly.

Weep not My own sweet Athena

My Circe, My Penelope

For I have wept enough for us both

Secretly longing to have your love to boast

But Boaster to myself alone,

For daily I’ll awake, amazed

If I turn to see Your Lovely Face

I’ll laugh at Me before discovering You

Who gives My world a richest hue.

For now my place is sealed, I hate:

A simple admirer up to date.

Maybe, if the gods so will

I’ll live up to pay Your Pricey Bill.

I am Black, She is Gray--

I know not how I love

But that I do love is fact.

This I write to My Most Magnificent of Muses

She who daily Inspires

And leads me to Desire:

To shed my older, Winter Skins

And put upon a Springly Thing.

And now at last, at last adieu…

...Oh all that is unsaid, it hurts me so

Adieu, adieu

My Mind and Soul are Yours,