twelve

Whose words these are I must not vow
though her beauty I know fond and proud;
She will not mind these buds I sow
as dreams ever barren never said aloud.

This life wants not for any want
which chattel nor praise may ever haunt;
But sent in flame to that great worth
brings forth value that love would birth.

Bequeathed in manhoods quickening time
that spilled first enamoured fear,
that hid nurturing a ringing chime;
wisdom’s bell, who listened would hear.

These words paint what few choose to see
of rhymes sheltering in storm’s lee,
but a promise kept this has to be,
before I keep my promise to flee.

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