My simple love poems live in your eyes,
And in the slope of your imperfect nose.
Your porcelain cheeks beguile, and belie
The strange magic that inspires my prose;
My poems lie in the warmth of your lips,
For their sugared taste enlivens my pen,
And causes my heart to stutter and skip,
While yielding the rhymes on which I depend;
The touch of your skin arouses my muse,
While quietly easing my troubled mind,
With a wondrous pow'r I can not refuse,
As your passionate breath steals away mine.
You are the womb that gives my lyric birth,
And the lungs that breathe love into my verse.