Sonnet 389

Ah Sylvia, dear nymph of gardens green,
Too soon we squander all the sweets of night;
Now in the east a rim of gold is seen,
Bright scimitar which is a lover’s blight;
What pain to have you rise from ‘twixt my arms
To stretch and yawn and shake your sleepy head,
Again to there awaken all your charms
But in so doing heighten partings dread.
A brief respite with you beneath the stars
Seems but a gift that is pure heaven sent,
No slight of day will yet this image mar
Though memory such may seem but yearnings dreamt.
Daylong I tread as though upon the air,
For fain at dusk, I’ll hold sweet Sylvia fair.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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