On Love Poems: a Sonnet
Twin turns converge upon a sunswept glade,
And along each a traveler ascends.
With each faint footfall images cascade;
Hand clasp, and coy glance, and soft summer winds.
As when fruits on boughs swell with sweet liquor,
So each heart's pregnant anticipation
Swells to the venules with love's sweet ichor,
Pressing their pace with each palpitation.
As idyll for lovers long since parted,
Or lyric where lonely desires arise,
So too these twin turns converge where started,
In each lover's heartsick sigh's last reprise:
Fancy's false edge can ne'er cut through whetting,
Nor bloodless words join lovers, through letting.
