Maleta

This is the saddest, hardest thing
I’ve ever had to do
And although it seems time to leave
I’m still in love with you.
Think not on the many hours
That melted in our arms;
Leave the petals on the flowers;
Think not a thought that harms.
I love you, I love you dearly,
And do not want to go
But if you say as much then clearly
It was meant to be just so,
But I never loved more fiercely, although they will be few
Who know our tread-softly secret, my darkling dark-eyed you.

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This entry was posted in Sonnets.

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