My coveted’s fair eyes are violet’s blue,
While her full lips are like a scarlet rose,
And from her bosom drifts a lily’s hue;
Thus with these pleasant sights my vision goes.
Her mind, held taught and twisted by duress,
Is elegant, intelligently fine.
She likes the flower’s sight and fragrance,
But hate she does their lack of song divine
Though rose may hold a captivating view,
And violets too, silence belongs to each.
My love, a splendid mix between the two,
Lets wilt teasingly deep when in my reach.
Each syllable that leaves her tongue’s the song
Of Sirens, curing my rose’s thornèd wrongs.
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Comments
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I'm not quite sure what to make of this yet. The song of the Siren led men to their deaths while the lips merely prick with the thorns of rose ... so death is the cure of the rose's thorns? I like this sonnet. It has the makings of a simple love poem, but it is so much more. Is it that she seeks to draw a love from him that he does not want to give?
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