#50 (“I wish ye well alway’, my Sweet. . .”)

                        I wish ye well alway’, my Sweet’, my Love’.

                        Blessings we have abundant, full and sweet.

                        Most times good health ye have complete, my Dove.

                        Most recently we have health poor and bleak.

                        But times will change so soon for us, foresooth.

                        We will be well and bright again right ‘way.

                        I hope in days ahead no cough uncouth.

                        I hope your day we be both fine, we may.

                        A happy birthday I do wish for you.

                        A day delight’ and sweet with blessings full.

                        No cold to mar o’r day, nothing to rue.

                        I love thee true on this, the day you rule.

                                    This verse so poor is ’cause I sick ye see.

                                    Next time a better poem ye get from me.



#49 (“On this, the day for love, my heart doth sing. . .”)


                        On this, the day for love, my heart doth sing.

                        Ye are my Sweet’ alway’, my love so true!

                        I love thee much, my dear:  Look, see, my ring!

                        Most beauteous  is it, dearest mine—I coo!

                        Yea, romance I do see with us in twain.

                        In Oxford life so good will be for sure.

                        In dream I saw this truth of sun, no rain.

                        Miss’ippi sun will be the best of cure’.

                        Together we will meet life rich with joy.

                        No tears to mar our days for we are two

                        As one!  Always’ we be!  ‘Tis true—not coy!

                                    I bless my luck with you, my dear, my love!

                                    Forever we be one, my Sweet’, my Dove!


#47 (“My Sweet’, dear Paul, my spouse for life. . .)


                        My Sweet’, dear Paul, my spouse for life for sure;

                        A happy birthday wish for you—in truth!

                        Ye are a wise man sure; therefore don’t rue

                        The day because time marcheth on—foresooth!

                        O’r days do seem so fill’d with promise clear.

                        Big choice we make this month just past for us.

                        Now house ye get for day of birth—no mere

                        Abode, but fill’d with promise true.  We must

                        Be grateful for o’r bounty full it is!

                        Much promise good for two we find in Miss’.

                        I love thee much and long for more in years

                        As wife of yours who oft’ doth reach for kiss!

                                    “If this be error and upon me proved;

                                    I never write, nor no man ever loved!”


#46 (“We wait for Christmas cheer!. . .)

                          We wait for Christmas cheer!  The day is but

                          Foretaste of joy divine—like grape delight!

                          The fruit of gods and us—we soon do sup!

                          The white of snow about; o’r world is bright!

                          To sup with grapes so sweet is nectar sure.

                          To look about at snow is further boon.

                          We live a life sublime, my Sweet’, no rue

                          The day at all—my Sweet’.  A hug comes soon.

                           A meal divine we have, in snug house warm.

                           The cold of snow delights from room so fine.

                           To end the day in peace and joy—no mourn!

                          ‘Tis gift of gods, I say, that yes are mine!

                                    We live together charm’d, my Sweet’, indeed.

                                    No fault we find with path upon we lead.


#45 (“My Sweet’, you say my poems are ease to read. . . .”


                        My Sweet’, you say my poems are ease to read.

                        My Shakespeare not a pain to you, my dear

                        Oh, yea!  (I say. . .with much relief indeed!)

                        You like to read my poem, my poem so mere.

                        I wond’ if Shakespeare would as well like mine?

                        No matter, Sweet’, it is to you I write.

                         I think the truth you tell to me, so kind

                        The truth that write I soon with all my might!

                        In thanks I write you now, my Sweet’, my all.

                        The best of me you are for sure, indeed!

                        Just say the word, my Sweet’, I come when call’.

                        Your love the key to write, you see—the seed!

                                    I do so love that write is ease to me;

                                   You say you like, I write the more, you see?


#44 (“How do ye wish me be. . .”)


                          How do ye wish me be to be the wife

                          For you?  More light, my Sweet’, more playful,

                          Dost this speak ye or me?  My life is rife

                          With chores and tasks galore; be this I rue?

                          Dost ye wish wife of play and cheer, my dear?

                         ‘Tis sure’ makes life more fun to grin and laugh.

                          Yet think I sure’ that cheer not be at rear.

                          ‘Tis I that long to carefree be; not daft,

                          Though, Sweet’, this I won’t be when cheer I be.

                          ‘Tis wise to be bit light with joy and fun.

                          ‘Tis I that wish a bit to change, ye see.

                           I long to laugh—all smiles in joy to run!

                                      Yea, easy, yea to think it you, not me.

                                      It may be good for twain, also, ye see!


#43 (“I need to learn to list’ e’er more. . .”)


                         I need to learn to list’ e’er more to Paul.

                         I speak too soon when he doth speak to me.

                         Reflection is the need—just stop!—‘tis all.

                         When stop I do before I speak, I see!

                         What mean I by “to see”?  ‘Tis easy do,

                         If stop I do, for Paul, my love for life.

                         I know him well—when want to speak, no rue.

                         If fast I speak, my thoughts with naught are rife.

                         So, my dear God, do help me see the way;

                         To stop I see, to rush unheed’ I be.

                         My Sweet’ needs words of truth indeed. To say,

                        “I know,” first stop I must—sure’ this the key!

                                    My love, I try to think ‘fore speech for sure.

                                    If naught I know, silence indeed be cure!


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