Fleur de Lis (for Isabelle Langros)
Not the rose,
Fairer still,
Not the fair breath of Spring,
Yet in her eyes, black chrystal gleaming,
Lies my heart, captive dreaming.
No. She was not the rose.
She was just a woman that I once knew.
Or, perhaps did not, now seems more true.
Whatever, we're not together.
No. She was not the rose.
But what a bloom was she,
Fleeting, flickering, gone
fancy trinket of a time.
Alas poor rose,
For she was sweeter still.
Alas poor Wolfe,
For the love of her haunts me still
Adieu Treasured One . . . Wolfe
Fairer still,
Not the fair breath of Spring,
Yet in her eyes, black chrystal gleaming,
Lies my heart, captive dreaming.
No. She was not the rose.
She was just a woman that I once knew.
Or, perhaps did not, now seems more true.
Whatever, we're not together.
No. She was not the rose.
But what a bloom was she,
Fleeting, flickering, gone
fancy trinket of a time.
Alas poor rose,
For she was sweeter still.
Alas poor Wolfe,
For the love of her haunts me still
Adieu Treasured One . . . Wolfe
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.