Dew No More Young Patient Flower
I mourn for him whom I still love;
though from me Cupid's ark hath sailed,
and with it my companion-dove,
across Poseidon's mighty veil.
I yearn for not his quick return,
but only to convey my heart,
for that I know is possible,
despite that we are worlds apart.
The dew that trimmed my bloom this morn,
that seeped into my leaf's lament,
still lightly glides with sentiment
and glimmers in the evening's tint.
His Majesty restrains his breath,
and so I root upon the pier,
but not to grieve nor damp my cast,
but come to terms with what I fear.
He saw me as his fated bud,
a flower very few can pluck,
and he was dearly confident
that I would bloom with lovers' luck.
But if his gentle hand hath writhed
before that infant's feeble vow,
then who am I to ardently
await the docking of his bow?
I do so miss his charming guise,
his shielding arms about my stem.
But what of all my missive pain?
Were not those earnest words for him?
The partly broken star subsides,
the past it lit no longer here.
Perhaps I should relinquish him,
and burn away my flimsy tears.
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