I might describe in awkward, halting prose
An exquisite and gently-petal'd rose,
Or sing of you in clumsy verse and rhyme,
And leave my song a testament in time,
If words alone could one ten-millionth part
Express the stirrings of my withered heart.
I might describe, in volumes of detail
A butterfly as delicate and frail,
And yet within those pages still express
The grace and quiet strength that you possess,
If just for one half-second I believed
The sentiment would half be well-received.
I might compose a movement in three parts
That, in a century, would still melt hearts,
And cause old men to weep, and children scream,
And all for just one single tragic theme:
That you were treasured more than time or wealth,
Yet never saw the beauty in yourself. |
