In vestiges of dream, you are here again
beside me on this counterpane of down.
O Love, that tyrant, Time, has lost its wings.
Ever young, you are here again to read to me
a sonnet from the Portuguese’s pen.
Your golden curls cascade as they did then,
ringlets twined and coiled escape their pins.
Rosebuds, shy but proud to be laced within
such radiant locks, glow with pleasure
at their lot.
My Valentine from heaven, may dawn be slow
in its arriving. Slumber, you will keep; this is no time
for sleeping. The nightingale has just begun to sing.
Tomorrow, (he continued) I’ll awaken from this dream,
but for now, My Dear, you are here again.
Come morning, beside the cast off clay
where the widower had been,
there was a weightless feather
from an angel’s wing and a single
silken petal, new from a rosebud’s bloom.