Sonnet 491

The wings of night now bring sweet Sylvia fair,
Her form light haloed by the silver moon,
Soft shadowed warmth assuaging every care,
Above her head all heaven, star festooned.
God gave her beauty more than men can stand
And of that essence which I now behold,
No rapture yet imagined here as grand
As this bright angel that my arms dare hold.
No greater gift could living sense bestow,
Not heaven itself to raise such wonders high,
No glory given to enraptured souls
Could with this vision here before me vie;
So blazoned on my mind ‘til final breath;
Here beauty pinioned ‘til I yield in death.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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