Temperment

The morning may rise cool and fresh,
Golden, gleaming, and gay;
But can it put at ease this flesh
With thou so far away?
To bless the bare brow the breeze blows
In the sultry summer sun,
But the pains of one in love’s throes
Cannot be so undone.
Outside the storm may rage and roar
And whipping winds may wail,
But this heart is firm except for
The love that makes it pale.
What pain compares to such passionate bliss
Or temperament rival thy longed kiss?

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This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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