An ethanian sonnet, dedicated to A. elfie S.
To what doth i owe the generous luck,
of crossing thine path ere sets in dark.
Years gone, days wild, saw me dobble,
sans thine gentle gaze, yet in sad vain,
Barren rhythm in a poor verse to cobble,
here an awakward manner for disdain.
Thine infinite variety my efforts to defy,
sweet breaths with candid tender plot,
to calm raw tempest, to dissolve night,
amid mild whispers, into so desperate
a pursuit wishfully lifelong, via fanciful
tantra melting in careless grace joyful.
Trusted are hearts, though us miles apart,
Winged is the rhythm, in my sight thou art.