Anne Sweetbriar

And were I to compare thee to the dawn,
No sunrise would permit itself compared;
No master’s portrait could be finer drawn;
Each morning’s flush could never glow so fair.
So I must write the beauty which is yours,
Which moves my muse in words I can’t ignore:
Enchanted by a look, my spirit soars,
Entranced as though I’d not seen dawn before.
To tell her would bring jealousy at least,
But sweet Aurora knows not this of thee:
Returning to the sun to light the East,
In blush of morning, all thy beauty see.
        As angels’ wings, my song shall touch the sky –
        Return my love, and I shall learn to fly.

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Stranger, here you will do well to tarry; here our highest good is pleasure.