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.

That dearest memories tug our hearts on strings
Is but reflected in these tears that flow,
And silent heartache such remembrance brings
Betrays itself in silver droplets so.
Thus do I now unleash in silent grief
The memoir of love’s long-forgotten years,
And time for once would be a welcome thief,
Could reminiscence  be his booty here.
Thus now I mourn the loss of all things past,
Of distant tender years now mocked by time;
And though love’s joys and sorrows seldom last,
Their relics linger ever on my mind.
These echoes are but sad and lonely strains
Of strings upon my heart that now are chains.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

Could poet’s breath breathe life to barren lines
And capture beauty’s soft and gentle hue;
Could silent words strike chords of love’s sweet rhyme
And recreate the rose’s fragrance too;
Then in these lines I would fair Sylvia paint
And beckon forth her subtle melody,
No sweeter sights or scents could ever state
A prouder tribute to her memory.
In pen and ink her virtues thus expressed
Shall mark her worth ‘gainst Time’s unending siege;
Nor should a beauty ever age unblessed,
For worth unknown to time does then concede.
Thus in proud verse, I hail her with my pen—
This praise to stand till time itself shall end.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

These sad, declining, dying days of yore;
Fair sunshine morns all burnished gold and green,
The tender breasts where youthful passion tore
Sweet sighs of love that sang our heart’s 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 hopeful hands fair cradled every star.
Each triumph was a song not left unsung,
Each day so bright no shade of dark could mar.
Though memories be but rifts in sands of time,
Midst fondest thoughts, your memory reigns sublime.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When I remember all the fruits of youth
That reckless time has scattered in his wake,
A child uplifted in a quest for truth,
Misled by passion, tutored by mistake;
Led by fond dreams of glad prosperity,
Cradled by hope, in hope fair dreams expressed;
Then to embrace a bleak reality—
By time and chance, of fondest dreams bereft;
From brightest morn unto the twilight hour;
From youthful glory to a humbler state.
From idyll homes to ivy-covered towers
Unto the Stygian black of forgone fate.
Oh cruel time that tempts us with such lust,
Fair gift today, tomorrow is but dust.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

And shall you mourn for me when I am gone,
Gone like embittered winds or winter snows,
Gone like a vagrant wanderer ever on—
No shadowed thought of whither he must go.
Will you think of me then—think then of me,
Of hopes and dreams that love could not express,
Of love whose gentle stirrings could not see
The fruits of life that passed it as it slept?
Yet hope should call that you remember this:
Once there was a man of caring—kind and true,
Whose restless spirit led his heart amiss
And did his fondest longings misconstrue…
Yet when I’ve gone, say nothing for me then,
Save, he was a man who lived and loved and learned.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

I did not know her, though I knew her well.
I knew her features, touch and sable hair.
I knew her silken voice which oft would tell
Of glad tomorrow and it’s grander share.
I knew her hopes and dreams and silent fears,
I held her in the quiet still of night,
And on occasion wiped off silver tears
That stained a rosy cheek with salty blight.
Yet though I knew her thus, I knew her not;
I could not see kind heart both false and true,
I could not see sweet Venus wearing black,
Or hidden insect soiling bud and bloom.
In blissful ignorance I played my part,
For fools in love see only with the heart.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

You left me there no word that you had gone
And I returned to find the hearth gone cold,
With not but silent thoughts to ponder on
And worried fears the heart prefers untold.
With fettered haste I searched each shadowed room
‘Til sweetest hope was drowned in sad despair;
‘Til muted echoes of a grieving moon
Coursed through my veins and left my soul threadbare;
And loneliness as ever lonely was
Enshrouded heart and mind in darkest night,
Enveloped memory in bleak repose
And blurred its color with a stinging sight.
Oh tortured passion that may fools enchain—
To bind in hope, then leave in lasting pain.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

When I downcast in deep and dark despair
Dwell long upon lost hopes and bitter days.
When sorrows’ shadow lengthens on the stair
And gentle kindness lies bereft of praise.
When human breast does quake in silent grief
And briny tear betrays a sullen eye,
And aching heart lies in sad state replete
With deepening murk of waxing misery.
‘Tis then my thoughts unto Selena turn;
The soft sweet voice and touch of gentle hand
Reach forth and with their tempered stirrings serve
To lift my hope in iridescent span—
For when she smiles all sorrow then takes flight,
The world sings, and all that’s dark is bright!

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

My silent pen now mocks me, this I fear,
For months have passed since passion called to write;
Yet less for lack of passion, this I swear
Than for neglect—that slow, love-killing blight.
Love is a fragile flower, this is true,
That if neglected withers on the vine;
Yet if fair nurtured still may rise anew
Repaying kindly each, and each in kind.
So I, to you, with this sweet silent pen
Pay homage to love’s wondrous splendent state
And beg forgiveness; nurturing again
That steadfast pow’r that virtue contemplates.
For if mean verse can ever nurture love…
These gentle lines your stolid heart may move.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.