“It is my lady; O! it is my love:
O! that she knew she were.” ~William Shakespeare from Romeo and Juliet
fairest sun
who shines as though this summer day
twas just another due to pay
and then shall shine no more
who has before and will again
shine like this - sweet repetition!
how to me this day so unrehearsed
unplumed as if so planned
will not be matched the same
nor nearer the same
as that which is
tis now! and real!
O! and look
how each living thing that touches me
is filled again with infant breath
as if new life had reared its own
from within
does my own mirth exceed
the very limit from which it formed?
have i received enough of love
in that frail moment
to claim these things?
do good eyes fail?
faze me not! tis not my worry
to know such things
but that i feel so full
of that which fills me now
is all i need... sweet Juliet!
or if i may compare thee to such grace
and with such honor such as
one as sweet as she so fair deserves
then in a name thou art
new Juliet!
and being so may not give rise
to your still skin
nor might it primp your heart
for its own giving
lest its taking
but by my souls own quest for life
held over fire - i challenge thee
let burn to ash my will to live
may i be wrong
let truth be the dare
doth not thy heart and love now smile
as if both kissed and held awhile?
O! tis sad of i to think they don’t
how if thy heart should shatter once
i’d keep it whole
or if thy love did show a silver strand
i’d make it gold
but there’s the catch!
a perfect fool!
and such is he who boasts
a noble claim to mend thy heart
or can by dare be sure of his own craft
to richen thy love
tis mine and my own head
that plays the part
and i am he who laughs at sudden love
for there has never been a breath of life
as rich as mine
so proud to profit
that i have felt so much
in such an instant
there she sits
and now she stands and wanders around
now sits again
O speak!
and let me hear that tender voice
glide through the air
tis only mine that imagines it so
no word would be so
beautifully spoken
and now her hand to her head
and cradled
such a dream to be that hand
and more than twice a dream
to cradle!
how blessed night must feel
in her repose
how every arm of darkness
wraps around her
and every breath she breathes
its own!
O! to be but a blink of darkness
that holds her tight
or more
to be but a wisp of air
within her breath
O life to life!
how mountain air
can claim no scent
until she’s bloomed
until she’s so
there’ll be no more
to have of this
the black breath
my own
of silence
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