Tuesday, April 03, 2007

Whenever I want you . . .

All I have to Do

I was not made for the hand’s of love,
nor for her lips, nor eyes, nor tongue,
The last time that I rode love’s hips,
I was plucked out, her firstborn young.

I cannot say why this is so,
yet, so it surely seems,
that love plays an evasive role
in all my loving dreams.

Dream on! the passing troubadour,
warm heart and traveling feet,
Dream on! he sings and moves along
to the time of his own heart’s beat,

Dream on! he sings, with a smile that’s sad,
Say true what your heart must say—
Dream on I will, and swear an oath,
to win your hand, your lips, eyes, tongue, one day.

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