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

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.