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Your Breath is but, a Love’s Bouquet.
Shaw o’ Inchrory

Your breath is but, a love’s bouquet, sweeter sipped as summer’s wine.
Whose beauty born there to display, lest perfections love opine,
whose pleasure would so seek to touch, on purest silken thread,
Love left to stay in many looms, those slender strands so fed.

Weaving there the wefts that would, those hoping hands align
in morrow’s page, so seek a plan, which love needs to assign.

Brightly beats there the butterfly that would so tremble too,
if it would only waft on wings, those dreams that I once knew.
Where love alas illusions brought, when reason sees ne’er soul when sought
or gives true tenure of a mind, for all splendorous faults to find.

Love lies within, thy trembled breast, ne’er needs such thoughtful words
Where wondrous nature willing jest, a simple given grace impress.

Bold beauty seeks again a self, supreme in souls own way
for faced with such a fragile truth, it justly flies away.
To leave but just the memory, a fragrant pleasure sweet,
that gifted but a moments thought, to make a life complete.


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