Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Out of practice


A silly man of wit infirm
Believes I'll go to hell
If I admire the lovely form
Of a tall dark demoiselle.


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Sweet lady, do not chide me for my gaze:
Your gestures and your looks simply amaze!


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Her feet were made of Jesus, and her voice
Could make the cold stones tremble and rejoice.


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How do I love you?  Well, if truth be told,
I'd gladly kiss you till we both grow old.


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My love's no fever, but a clear fresh spring
Sustaining me through all my wandering.


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Yes, Dante's Beatrice would bend the knee
Before my sovereign lady's majesty.


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These April blossoms seem so weak
Compared to my love's sun-kissed cheek.


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This woman on the bus -- young, dark, and slender --
Outshines the summer sun in her fierce splendour.


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If any man is not profoundly pleased
By her bright smile, well, then, his heart's diseased!


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O pious soul, so proper and so rigid,
How did your blood become so tame and frigid?


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Very few poets' rhymes can quite compare
To the proud song of her unstraightened hair.


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The tuneful songbirds and the rumbling trucks
Signal the sun will soon come up -- aw, shucks!

Song of Songs