I THOUGHT of your beauty, and this arrow,
Made out of a wild thought, is in my marrow.
There's no man may look upon her, no man,
As when newly grown to be a woman,
Tall and noble but with face and bosom
Delicate in colour as apple blossom.
This beauty's kinder, yet for a reason
I could weep that the old is out of season.
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A poem full of reminiscence.....a soft longing for a day that lay much further away than we care to remember, but we remember, fondly, anyway. If we live long enough, we all come to feel this way.
~ ~ Sincerely, Janet ~ ~
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