A gentle warning for this trust that binds
Is not enough to hold a love that’s true.
Yet deem not this admonishment unkind,
Nor think my meaning strays from what is due.
You are my fondest dream—now, as before;
And all past passions pale by compare—
You are the sun, the moon, all beauty’s store
Reflected in your visage, bright and fair.
Yet slight untruths may leave a sullied stain
On dearest hopes that love itself has sown—
Such slights alone can grow to greater pain
And trade joy’s bloom for sorrow’s thorned repose.
My heart is yours—you hold it in your hand—
To keep in truth, or crush with false command.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.