A sonnet for Diana.
Morning light is filled with gold
Of delicate, transient hue;
The noonday sky is beautiful
With its deep and ethereal blue;
The momentary grandeur in the west
Is repeated tranforming delight,
Followed by that changing mystery,
The silken lustre of the night.
O they can boast of their display
But I will count our love more rare:
Say they have no voice to speak, no lips to kiss,
No minds to knit, no hands to care,
And in repetition they come then fade away,
Whilst my flawed love grows with each passing day.