Black lines! Trite stirrings of a hapless muse
Still dare attempt to call in abject rhyme
A fitting tribute, as if Orpheus
Himself had writ them in some ancient time;
But no, mean verse moves not the savage heart
Nor sways the will of dread Persephone;
Yet as a lover I must play my part
And plead my case ‘gainst cosmic enmity.
These words by mortal hand were sadly writ
And clearly thus no godly graces claim—
Yet Gods and Graces may themselves commit
To verse and rhyme that sing sweet love’s refrain;
But if these words can yet my love, entrance—
What care I then if rocks and trees can dance?

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.