Your hair so
bright just as the golden sun,
And gaze at heaven’s blue star in your eye;
Make little of
me that my love is none.
For you contain
a hundred passes wild,
And nature is
predictable when cold;
This separates
man from organic tile,
Bind beauty,
mood, and soul to life from mold.
I dare not write
you as a silent hill,
Way, pasture,
lake or beautiful spring day;
A summer lies
where raging rivers fill
Your quiet,
brooding heart holds winter’s May.
Let poets write their naturistic state;
May she who lives be called my human mate.