Sonnet 568

What is the measure of a woman fair,
A smile, a look, an ever fetching gaze?
Sweet saucy curls inciting golden hair,
Fine countenance to every heart amaze?
A graceful carriage flattered by the sun,
A step, a stance, a stoop, a loving swoon;
A gesture light of limbs soft slender spun,
Smooth silken skin sheer shimmered by the moon?
What essence pure can capture heaven’s light
Distill it and then blend it in a song,
That every soul by scent, by sound, by sight
Beholds an angel rising from the throng.
It is a quested quantum few may know—
Still called by every grace, you mark it so.

© Loubert S. Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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