Sonnet 7

Two hundred times I looked upon your face,
One eighth of which were you aware of me.
Two hundred times I watched you cross a place;
Not e’en an eighth of those did you see me.
But we were thrown together, drawn by chance;
And, during four short hours, obliged our host.
Eight times we took our part in formal dance
While I urged Cupid on to do his most.
But all has changed; my world has turned around
By bringing us securely face to face.
My fascination with you now is crowned
By seeing how you dance with supple grace.
It took so long and, yet, I will not moan.
My numbers tell a story of their own.

Sonnet 6

What must I do to bring you to my side?
For women's friendship you do not eschew.
You're friends with everyone, but woe betide
The one who finds herself in love with you.
What is it that will bring you? I'm aware
That views of those around you have no hold.
It sometimes even seems to me you dare
To choose your latest love to break the mold.
I've gazed into your depths of midnight blue
And wished I'd lived another time and place:
A place where your sweet lips were never viewed;
A time when I would not have seen your face.
I love you, yet I hate you. In my eyes
You truly are a god in mortal guise.

Sonnet 5

The retinue proceeded into Court
With our dear monarch, whom the Lord had blessed.
Among the men who offered their support,
A single man stood out above the rest.
He did not tower o’er the other men,
And yet I found my eyes were drawn to him.
The way he walked with confidence, and then
The way he stood displayed his well formed limbs.
His hair and beard were black; no sign of grey.
His melancholic humour clear to all.
His eyes were dark, but tinged with sapphire rays.
His smile could vie with any siren’s call.
’Twas Helos, and I did not know it then,
But he would help me learn to love again.

Sonnet 4

Do you believe, sir, in love at first sight?
‘Til now, I must confess that I did not.
I did not think that love could wield such might,
Such power on me, that I’d be fairly caught.
Do you return my love? Are you caught, too,
By Cupid’s darts as you return my glance?
Or are you wond’ring to yourself: Just who
Would gaze at you with basest impudence?
But is it love? Or is it merely lust
For you who have me caught within your spell?
In truth, how can I claim to love you thus
When I am merely yearning for a shell?
Do I believe? I’m really not too sure.
But this I know: my thoughts are most impure.

Sonnet 3

My heart was pounding, much against my will.
The blood was thudding hard inside my ears.
Upon my brow a subtle glow appeared.
Perhaps an ague was what made me ill.
‘Twas difficult to walk with quaking knees
And difficult to grasp with trembling hands.
My limbs would not obey my mind’s commands.
Perhaps a palsy had o’ertaken me.
My breath was shortened, coming out in gasps.
My palms were damp, no matter what I tried.
My stomach held a hundred buzzing flies.
This problem is a thing that I have grasped:
My illness is not serious, I’m sure;
‘Tis lovesick that I am, without a cure.

Sonnet 2

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.

Sonnet 1

Who is my Muse? Urania perchance --
The one who causes me to gaze at stars?
Terpsichore then; she who leads my dance,
And wand’ring, practising my choral bars.
Melpomene is not my choice today
For tragedy is not my current style.
Not Euterpe, who makes the music play,
Nor Thalia, whose presence makes me smile.
Though Polyhymnia would speak full well
The instrument is flawed; that’s been shown.
Calliope would take too long to tell
Her tale through me; and Clio’s story’s known.
I sense Erato’s work in what I choose,
Although I know that Helos is my Muse.