Sonnet 464

From precious blossoms was your beauty born,
Heaven scented flowers ablaze with dew
That hailed golden sunshine every morn
And stippled lush green meadows with their hue.
No greater pleasure could yet grace my sight,
Than those blushed pinks that softly bathe your skin
Where even yet a sanctifying night,
Pure moon and stars, may beckon thoughts of sin.
A paragon of Nature without peer
Where every light or shadow can so play
Upon the minds of men to thus endear
Their souls that then their hearts be swept away.
Would that your innocence such power presume:
Proud worlds so vanquished by a single bloom.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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