He looked at her as if she were crazy;
She looked at him as if to confirm it.
Sonnet no. 3
Her eyes came sweeter than a star’s white milk,
Infused with gentle breeze, and drunk by night;
Her words, bewitching soldier’s blood to silk,
Were chosen like a friend by firelight.
Her youth could not be spent, and so remains,
Beneath the wisdom lifting up her smile;
Her dreams evolve like peaking, nervous waves,
Compelling cliffs to fall to sandy miles.
But now, her acts have borne her far away,
Too high for any turning phrase to fly —
Where monstrous suns would fail to pull her home
Her dreams reach me but softly, like a spray,
My skin no longer glows beneath her eyes,
But I have briefly held a soul which roams.