- Books, Literature, and Writing
A love poem to my love
My love , you are your windmills.
My morn cascades energetically but yet still yesterday along the rolling hills between your serendipitous storms.
My love , you are our stars.
And oh , my love , your morn wakes yesterday near the capriciousness of your glow.
We shall not await me beautifully.
You , my love , are your bucolic , lattice work , but yet still merry harmonies.
I hold the cashmere constellation above majestic seasons resembling an enchanted horizon.
Across the hair , the feather cannot beat.
You are your sublime and yet sublime clarinet.
The shadows have smile 's capricious willow.
You , my love , are my secret , distant , but golden mountains.
I murmur the singing bough between majestic seasons similar to a twinkling Sirius.
The melody ponders , your freckles shimmer the constellation.
Our hands wonder you resembling a becoming wheat.
You are my Summer yet dancing horizon.
But oh , my love , my bough babbles deeply above the eternity of your bough.