Sitting in Michael's Lap
The beauty of the morning's birthing hour,
When hummingbirds bejewel the Glory's vine,
The crimsoned dawn in all its quiet pow'r,
I'd gladly yield, if only to be thine!
The lullaby that floats upon the breeze,
With sweet perfume of dew upon the pine;
Such rare delights! But even such as these
I would forsake, if only to be thine!
The blushing rose, her silken gown aglow
With scarlet grace no Lady could refine;
These petals at thy feet I'd surely throw
To smooth thy passing, only to be thine!
The verdant spring, replete with songbirds' hymn,
And flowers calling butterflies to dine,
And clouds that sail the heights like seraphim,
I'd sacrifice, if only to be thine!
For thee, who braved the tomb of wintry ice
Wherein my heart, for fear, I did confine,
I would in gladness render any price
That might be named, if only to be thine!
Each secret smile, each sweet and lilting song,
My heart, my soul, and all I claim as mine,
Oh! Question not to whom these things belong –
But know, in truth, that each and all are thine;
Each hour, from twilight's bloom to break of day
And back again, I gladly would consign;
But still, an even grander price I'd pay
To take thy hand, and know my joys are thine.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest