BEATRICE–THOU ART LOVE

Beatrice,
dearest virgin,
truest love of mine;
beloved Angel of the Heavens Most High,
my Grace, my Muse, my Love, combined.

Most beautiful mate of my Soul,
radiant Angel walking on Earth’s greenery,
each touch of silken slippers
calling forth purest of white rose blossoms,
remembrances for your princely lover so to follow.

My beating heart longs so
for one delicate touch of your divine hand,
softly, stroking my forehead
as a mother strokes her new babe,
dispelling all doubts and fears.

Your smile,
white enamel and lust-red lips,
heavenly moisture clouds on cold day,
capturing my attention as moth to flame,
inviting me into sacred, secret spaces.

Placing my lips to the soft curve of your neck,
I am greeted ever so subtly
by warm, marble smoothness,
sweet, lingering scent of Osmanthus,
pulsing blood of your longing heart.

There can be no other,
neither beauty nor wit,
nor wealth nor wile,
not even the female magical arts of times long past,
shall divert my goal of winning the heart of Beatrice Dear.

I must tarry alone no more upon this rocky path;
but, be brave and forthright,
seeking her heart’s compassionate door,
sweetly saying, come to me my darling Dear,
as lover, as spouse, as friend eternal.