Perfection
My coyness if I could perchance allay,
I might, for once, corral the force of will
To stand before you, true in every way,
And state my love, however short of skill.
The breath of beauty follows where you lead
And never few are those who crave your heart.
Though nobler be their sight or fair indeed,
Not one of them warm comfort can impart.
With every day, in graces you increase
And gentler is your mien as years go by;
My fondness of your charm will never cease,
But shall instead persist until I die.
Seldom is wit with beauty thus combined,
And this is how perfection is defined.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
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