I must confess the smallest of theft,
The guile of a wile, the theft of a smile.
Stolen, laid to rest within in my breast,
There hidden away, for later display.
Small the flower, but great the power
Salting my tower with bygone hour.
Distilling for me a picture like clone,
Amorously shown when I am alone.
I allowed the theft of these flowers,
To savor thee, in the absent hours.
Worth more to me then my books of soar,
Worth more to me then my friends of splore.
Forgive the crime, it's not the first time,
I have stolen from a memory chime.
I have taken from you more than one blush
And more then one look of you in hush.
So faint, so fair the pilfer of dare,
Distressed not a hair not a single impair.
And all this whimsy, whinnied my mood,
For illicit, subdued, quietude.
On reading, she had only this to say,
I'll forgive you, if you take me away?