Whither, The Waft Of Love Blows

A Victorian love tale.

I ween in my thoughts a winsome field,
Where blooms of spring are ne'er afield,
And the cluster of sundry leaves yield,
To the comely willow trees that shield.

When whispers of glee are heard anew,
Above those dreary clouds that are few,
O'er the lonesome stems that soon grew,
Amidst the wetness of the droopy dew.

The lorn sorrow of eaves wip'd away,
With driblets of rain that drench today,
Cleansing harsh woes that seldom sway,
Upon hearts of lovers oft brisk and gay.

Thuswise, thester shades of gloom rive,
As daisies blossom and therefore thrive,
By the throng of foppish men that wive,
Within the fair lassies that the lads strive.

Behold a merry smile of the bold swain,
Who sings lasting songs that are fain,
Whilst billows the soothing lilt of twain,
Amongst the manifold garths that lain.

And thither, o'er that wondrous brow,
Where fresh hummingbirds fly now,
Beyond that gleam of God that I bow,
Such a heavenly sight for us to dow.

Eftsoon, I shall abide earnestly by a gate,
For the heartfelt sigh of my belov'd mate,
As I listen to the ghosts who quickly prate,
Along the whistling winds that bustle late.

O whither, that waft of love blows,
Upon a pond where the water flows,
Beneath the fleeting shine that glows,
Onto the guise of a woman who rows.