#42 (“Twas joy to hear ye speak your heart. . .”)


‘Twas joy to hear ye speak your heart this morn’!

 How much I miss when I speak much—not list’.

 ‘Tis sweet, my dear, for words o’r break’ adorn.

 ‘Tis best this way begin in speech—n’er miss!

  I love to hear you speak your mind, my dear—

  Most clearly when it soul reflect heartfelt.

  ‘Tis words that heart of mind rejoice to hear.

  ‘Tis words that heart of mind indeed wilt melt!

   Do help me, Love, to list’ the more always’.

   We two as one become e’er more and more.

  I wish to hear ye speak–not all me say.

 ‘Tis joy indeed to see your heart to core!

             If time can teach, it would say this to us:

             List’ more, all slow’, list’ more, with love—no rush!


#41 (“I am most grateful, Sweet’, for you. . .”

I am most grateful, Sweet’, for you—the best

Of me, for twain make one (not two), just one.

‘Tis super feel the love from you.  The rest

Is in this love, I’m sure; here all be done.

I love to find your mind like mine (the ‘verse

Is true also).  Alike we think so oft’

My Sweet’, that n’er do find a word to curse.

Ye lead my thought in paths above, aloft.

If e’er ye need to talk with me for mind’

Of two to meet as one, just say the word,

My dear.  I list’ to you with heart full kind.

Ye art my love, my Sweet, indeed—lovebird!

            As one we are in mind and heart and soul;

            As mates we are and share, we do, one whole!


#40 (“On day of Thanksgiv’n. . .”)


                               On day of Thanksgiv’n we do lounge and play:

                               A breakfast long with joy complete for two.

                               We are the two, my Sweet’—just us with ray

                               Of sun that warns o’r heart, leaves naught to rue.

                               What hope and thought have we for day sublime?

                               Soft words of love, a day to rest, a meal

                               So soon with friends so close.  This day the kiss

                               I oft’ do long to see ‘mid work unreal.

                              Yea, work too hard we do—time soon to halt

                              The race of rats and come inside to rest.

                              Your love is strong and true, for joy it’s wrought

                              For me.  I long more time with ye, not less.

                                        I count my blessings true today for sure—

                                       Ye are the key to joy for me—the lure!


#39 (“My Paul, I do feel good. . .”)

                                    My Paul, I do feel good when think of you.

                                    My heart o’rflows with joy and thankfulness.

                                    ‘Tis season to give thanks, my Sweet’.  Your due

                                    Is joy unbounded sure—full joy, not less.

                                    This joy I wish the gods wilt ‘stow on you.

                                    Deserve the best, ye do.  The best from me

                                    I try to give as birds of love do coo.

                                    We two, lovebirds we are—yea, this ye see!

                                    I honor you as best of me—the twain

                                    Are one, ye know.  And hope for lifelong peace

                                    For us.  Peace, yes, but most of joy obtain.

                                    No strife, my dear, my Sweet’—just one long kiss!

                                                I thank my God for gift of you to me.

                                                My love and joy are full for you, ye see!


#38 (“A play on words I make. . .”)


                                    A play on words I make, a song in mind

                                    Not clearly heard in sound.  I say, “Is mak’

                                    Up hard to do, my Sweet’?”  Not when we kind

                                    To each–forsooth!  For you I make a cake!

                                    Then all is well with us again for sure.

                                    You easy are to live—a cake ye ask,

                                    No more!  Then I no more feel out on moor

                                    Like Bronte’s figure read as part her cast.

                                    The song, my dear, ‘tis “Break’ up hard to do?”

                                    No issue for the two of us—long since

                                    We knew we stay as twain—we love, not rue.

                                    ‘Tis easy to be as one; we are not dense!

                                                If clear o’r minds stay full in love so true;

                                                To make up full us twain is easy do.



#37 (“No rancor, I do pray. . .”)


                          No rancor, I do pray, for Paul and me.                             

                          A time of joy and peace alway—mirage?

                          Ye say?  I do hope not; o’r love, the key!

                           No issue small or great but love can dodge.

                           My Sweet’, I do love far and wide and deep.

                           My love is built on truth and admira’           

                           Most full and keen and true.  My heart doth peek

                           From out its place to hide; then ire is done.

                           So from o’r hearts we love, and quickly pass’

                           Away the mists of pain and understand’

                            Lost.  Stay so close to me that I may stash

                            My heart in twain with yours—there love doth land.

                                    A love so deep with peace its goal I see;

                                    Yea, goal so good—‘tis Heav’n for you and me!



#36 (“My Paul, a longer life let’s have alone”)


                        My Paul, a longer life let’s have alone;

                        Just two—the two of us in peace and love.

                        We may go far afield, I’m sure, to roam

                         In Florence dear, but find a place to serve

                        We must, to serve and find o’r joy in peace.

                         If life so long we are to have, a plan

                         To serve must be in place.  “And frolic cease?,”

                        Ye ask of me.  Oh, no, have both we can.

                         A plan to serve, a place to frolic in—

                        These two not contra’ be; the best of life

                        Is work and play—the twain in joy will send!

                        And, yes, for me the twain doth seem so right.

                                  A life alone, yet fill’d with joy and peace;

                                  The gods will smile and smile—in bless’ n’er cease!


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