Contentment is not a gold filled abyss,
nor the flattering eye of a maidens kiss,
but the cauldron of love's chemistry,
whence guile nor wit unravel its mystery.
For each heart holds emotions rare
of perfume's waves that ever harmonise
the diamond cut of sparkling eyes,
courts the wingless narcotic air,
to lightly touch with infectious care.
Thus, sun-kissed dews of morning new,
reflects love's light still shinning through,
lace woven spun in softness so apply
ribbons bright, to heavens furnace sailing high,
where song birds to its ether hung
chirp love's lyrics ever sweetly sung,
in continuous voice for many an hour,
articulate the piquant heart's blithesome power,
to blindly breathe love's living tale,
annulling anger and low passion fail.
For brightest love, best in simple dreams,
in words, in songs, in eyes that beam,
radiance, like the cradled star of night,
the blush of light, the moon's soft flight;
such vistas, flushed with feminine grace,
give hope to halt the raging war's disgrace.
Love's contentment shall into winter flow,
A genial tapestry ageless spring bestow,
for hearts that love grow not old,
for love's not silver, just pure gold.