Then by what measure do you weigh my art,

You, dear, whose essence lives in every line?
But even as you read this, judge me not
By style, by depth, by wit, or by my rhyme.
Though many sing proud praises, false or true,
Their gifts of gilded glamour you surround,
They do but flatter here to misconstrue
That sterling truth here in my song is found.
So I, though poor in purse, yet rich in ink
Strive just to etch my name on your heart sweet,
Presumptuous it be, perhaps, to think
That I, ‘gainst all admirers might compete;
Yet, if a heart was ever won by pen,
These words with all your suitors will contend.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.