For C.
I write without hope of gaining favor,
As age precludes the assumption of grace.
Nonetheless, my pen must strive to honor
Beauty; praising the features of thy face
With homage forged in ink, not carv’d stone;
For what alabaster could not help turn
Obsidian when it your fairness shown?
Why even the silent fires that burn
Amidst the heavens daily shroud their flames
Once thy jeweled orbs ope to gaze upon
The world, for they outshine emeralds, and shame
Creatures made dreary by comparison.
Though my art is
oft’ begot in madness,
I pray
these words will prove balm to sadness.
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