On Reading Chaucer

My Love she is a statue with a beating heart so true
Her eyes are of ashen stone, her lips a rosy hue
Her hands are polished alabaster,
Though soft and gentle to the touch,
Her dark hair is of woven silk
With a garland everlasting
And deep within her golden chest
A heart of such sweet purity does rest
That no metal can surpass it
No smith can hope to match it
For it is the heart of my amour
My fairest lady, and my love – alas!
My Love she is a statue with a beating heart so true
Her eyes are of ashen stone, her lips a rosy hue

May 2002

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This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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