Too harsh are the words of one whose eyes
Kindly speak in gilded words
yet none of us understand the pains
in those melancholy browns
She speaks of love-
yet, she knows not me, she sighs in the wind
and I cannot breeth.
too lovely are the words of
of one whose fancy
lips do slyly lie, and make
Sonnets of rhyming delights
I am forgotten….
While she is a temple a and a sight
for love sick fools
who do much admire her effervescent
I am in a desert; always thirsty.
where she walks
Pearls and an oasis follow.
I am but a grain of sand.
And, she is the sky.
Breeth, is not a typo it is in old english. just if anyone was wondering.