If my arms were laden with pink rose buds
they would not blossom for a king, but for thee.
If thou should take them with my promised love
for thine heart they would bloom in eternity.
T’was not thine eyes, nor the bouquet of thy smile
that maketh me fragrant with your love.
But my maiden heart weighs so heavy in hope
Pray touch me, if only softly with thy glove.
Sir, I am no vain nor dim-witted wench,
but a mere damsel withered not with any age.
In worshiping the sweet temple of thy lips
my tears runneth locked within love’s cage.
Oh why, dost thou cast me aside as a twig
Art thou a bootless rude bellied pig?
©SyberRose