When first I grasp my pen I think of you;
You are the golden image of my eye,
For yet at night your visage can shine through
The midnight of a moonless blackened sky.
You are, as now, and ever on my mind;
As if with you all happiness does dwell.
You must be sure a gift from heaven kind;
Were you to leave, this heav’n would be my hell.
So here your servant sits compelled to write,
And in so doing tries but hold you near,
And writing so is such a pleasured plight
To think mere words might keep a prize so dear.
Yet should you ask, what does this wordsmith mean?
Look in your glass, you are a poet’s dream.
©Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.