No mixture could I get
By all what I had tried.
And as brevity is the soul of wit
I’ll let short words me guide
To where my sweetheart compil’d.
My heart hath stopp’d at every
Flower to seek the nektar,
Wherein all buds were weary
And beyond the depiction of any writer.
But when their thorns found me lonely,
They robbed my heart from shinning brighter.
He lost faith in love,
He vowed to never unfold again;
And catch the nearest aeroplane
To seek an advice from Jove.
How so? Jove’s no longer there!
Nor Cubid, nor Aphrodite– the fair.
They all disappear’d, or rather now dwell
In my world of fantasy. And with a spell,
I’ll summon one for me to tell
How much of Love is my share…
Poetry Revival 