Lightly Does It Fall...

And here come thee, a descent soft as thistles in autumn air

Come thee down with a hand so delicate - am I terrifed I will do wrong.

'Twas not long when beheld I thy visage last; seems an eternity for me now dear.

So oft hath I longed, and yet, wistfully did thou turn me back - pleasure conceived not invisible a fugitive in - 'twas so for me then;

Ah! countless! countless art those hours spent I in me dreams with thee in my night sky, was my intense desperation not spurned, but not heeded to either. Am I not as was I not a poet to yearn for thee as such -

Strange how stays extant this burn in my heart still.

Have I that drop of water now - 'tis everywhere, and everywhere I look, but wander my eyes further, further, and a little further yonder.

These dews the soil drinks, quenched is its thirst forsooth.

These drops - a shower falling briskly and lightly in tandem, fall precariously from the brink of heaven.

Oh my confidence in the tempest! Oh my love in despair! Must I tell thee how on rocks both amorphous and fine shaped, carve thy water a tracery that my never did my hands knew how to weave on a golden sequin.

Thee dribble, with transparent an ink is that indelible on my skin. May I ask how thee do that?

Sit I by me window as reminisce I a synopsis of what I hath with thou - times both bitter on the two halves of a day, and memories sweet with the resentment all given away.

And there catches my eye, a bird that, startled as if by a squirrel's nest in the foliage, recedes flapping its wings that sprinkle those thistles again - and art they visible from a window too distant like scintillating bits of spark on the horizon drenched in a black hue.