mine own girlish woes.

O gentle heart, whose voice doth weave a spell, In dulcet tones like whispers of the morn, Thy melody, a balm, in silence dwells, Yet in mine ears, a haunting is reborn.

 I fear, sweet love, thou hast grown weary now, Of mine own voice that lingers o’er the air, For time’s cruel hand doth steal, and I must bow, To shadows cast by longing’s deep despair. 

What remedy canst I find to spark, The flame of thine affection’s warm embrace? Shall I, like stars that pierce the velvet dark, Compose a sonnet, pen my heart in grace? 

In midnight's cloak, I dream of tender nights, Where words like wine flow sweet from lips divine; Forsooth, I crave those stolen, secret flights, When thoughts entwined, like ivy, twine with thine. 

O, grant me but the gift of thine recall, To let my heart, like lark, take wing anew; For in the solace of thy gaze I fall, And find in thee the world I long to view. 

Yet here I wait, with pale and wistful sigh, Beneath the weight of whispered, soft despair; Writing verses to the stars that sigh, And hoping still that thou wilt find me there. 

So come, dear heart, if but to share a glance, And breathe new life into this weary soul; For love's sweet music, in its ancient dance, Shall bring us close, and make my spirit whole.