To One Who Only Tended to a Fold
In quiet she so flattered would withdraw,
to treasure lines his sonnet could convey --
as poetry of unrequited awe
each line a budded stem of love's bouquet --
from proper distance giving due respect
like sun that from on high had showered light
as yearning for the smile she might reflect
in moon becoming lustre of the night
at window where she paused again to read,
still clad in vibrant shades of peasant dress,
bravado that timidity would plead
as love she could not dream it would profess
to one who only tended to a fold
whose dowry was but beauty to behold.
Portly Bard: Old man.
Prefers to craft with sole intent
of verse becoming complement...
...and by such homage being lent...
ideally also compliment.
The Ekphrastic Review
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