When first I grasp my pen I think of you,

That golden-haloed image of my eyes

Which cleaves all shadow and can so break through

The blackened mantle of a moonless sky.

You are yet here and ever on my mind

As if with you all happiness does dwell,

The rarest gift to hail from heaven kind;

Sweet smile of light to make the spirit swell.

So here your helot sits compelled to write

And in so doing strives to hold you near,

Where writing so reveals a fancied flight

Writ in a dream, convinced these words endear.

Should you then ask what does this wordsmith mean?

Look in your glass, you are a poets dream.