Wednesday, January 25, 2012


Elusive, if sought
Her virtue cannot
Be gained by thought

And if perchance
Her wine I sip
It turns bitter
On my lip

She demands
No law or creed
As through love’s hands
Her colors bleed

Her royal gown
Is not of thread
Rather a crown
Upon a head

Yet, she reserves
Her treasured lot
For those who wear
Her without thought

She is the reward
Of love’s perfection
Not so much a form
As a reflection

Never flaunts herself
And yet her beauty
Out-shines all else


No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you for your visit to this porch. I'd love to hear if or how this post/poem touched you!