Sylvia, Sylvia fair, combing down
That twilight hair, in quiet silence there,
No sound; yet in reflective glass is found
In praise beyond compare, no face as fair.
No eyes as bright where with their fetching sight
Do rob with zeal, those precious souls they steal
And hold in grasp so tight, no man can fight
Lest heart be torn in pain he dreads to feel;
Nor should he ask that you his soul unclasp
For no one deigns to ever be set free
From peerless ecstasy, to breathe his last
And drown stone lonely in that plumbless sea.
How many in that boudoir met their end,
Sweet rapture or bleak sorrow to contend?
© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.