It is sweet pleasure here to pen your fame,
That others of your worth may ever know;
Yet to such grandeur, words seem dull and tame—
For how to limn the root from which it grows?
Still write I must with this poor peasant pen,
Of riches greater than most eyes have seen;
Of beauty that may not be seen again—
Of that which is, but never yet has been.
What honor great, to have but held your hand;
What peerless joy, to love a heart so true.
Such wealth bestowed, I stand a humble man,
Pure-blessed with fortune granted to the few.
My sole regret—that I but one life live,
To love such grace as you have heart to give.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.