By Debra Squyres
Wand’rest thou in the evening shade where growetj the buds untrimmed. The rose with all its thorns, pales fade, against thy beauty. Far fairer is thy complexion, which bids decline of sun, less alabaster cheeks find a gentle dust of speckles, unkind. Thou art mine eternal Valentine, leased only for a short time, whilst hidden in shadows decline. This braggart’s heart gives way to silent love’s impediments, as ink spills this declaration from quills end, unmarked by its maker. A totter’d weed, of feebled age, besieged unfairly, bows low to societies bequest of duteous stage. A sickle swung before a blind heart could ripen.