Sonnet 33

These yet so sad and dieing days of yore;
Fair sunshine morns all burnished gold and green,
The tender breasts from which our passions tore
Sweet sighs of love that sang our hearts’ refrain;
And sweeter still, fond memories of you
In frill and frock, a wondrous fairy child,
An angel sure, and yet a woman too
Whose silent charms a thousand hearts beguiled.
This was our time, when youth and dreams were one
And hands of hope fair cradled every star.
Each triumph was but scarce a song unsung,
Each day so bright no dark dismay could mar.
Though memories be but rifts in sands of time,
Midst fondest thoughts, your memory reigns sublime.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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