J. Scott Smith

She, fair skinned, fair haired, countenance formed to men wilt and wither
She, eyes danced by light star bright yet muddled as though rain puddled
She, a lure, charming, bountiful beauty, godsent me hither
She, stood apart thither, knows not be her my visage ruddled

Verity deigns veracity in account of the woman
For not I alone but another was set her here below
Feign scoundrel would I be to represent as me her true man
Poor man, base creature, that I desire her love on me bestow

She, to whom beauty bows low in subject
She, in whom with mirth melds melancholy
She, for whom gods did duty not neglect
She, by whom choice did choose not one, not me

September 2011
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