Somewhere in a diary,
Or log of which I've kept,
I've inked a proper dowry,
Of one to whom I've wept.
I wish I could recall those words,
And share them with you now,
For I am sure that you are worth,
Their every tear and bow.
When I wrote them I fell ill.
They were drawn and drowned in ice,
The letters etched with careful skill,
Like the porcelain in your eyes.
No Aiken or Longfellow
Could ever match the rapture,
Nor could any harp or chello,
Mimic what I caputured.
Alas I can't remember them,
And instead I must replace,
Words that drew you like a gem,
Writ to etch your face.