A poor man’s bequest to you, is but this
Do uncloak your lovely wrists of kid glove
And feel all of my ‘poverished words’ kiss.
I pick from beneath a cherry tree’s fall
And pilfer choicest reds from old men’s graves
Sewing colours and the unsaid with love’s awl
For soles to stroll to what your heart enslaves.
Shall I pick “beautiful” or “paramour”?
Or soft “Venus” over “Aphrodite”?
Or “hold me” while I smilingly pen “demure”?
Oh! Have my quill bow to your wants mighty!
For love I shall give all and thus my words
Are yours, every drop from my pen’s vineyards!