Obey my feeble will for me, my treach’rous wayward eyes;
Harry not the stranger, this god-like man, around the room.
My glances must not follow aft, his likeness to consume.
Yet, could he be aware that I consider him a prize?
Obey my waning will for me, my trait’rous shaking voice;
Hasten through the greeting, lest he hear the quiver in it.
My words seem trite. The whole event is over in a minute.
Yet, should I make it clear to him that he would be my choice?
Obey my dwindling will for once, my faintly trembling hand;
Handle the touching fingers with civility and grace.
My grasp reveals desire -- I pray, not shown upon my face.
Yet, can I keep it from him that a dormant spark’s been fanned?
Obey? Surrender to his will, my all-too-willing lips!
Have sympathy for those who cannot know these nectar’d sips.
No comments:
Post a Comment