Sitting in Michael's Lap
The Secret Garden
A barren waste, a stretch of sterile soil,
A blemish on the spirit's solemn face:
So waxed my heart in wake of treason's toil,
For I had labeled it forbidden place.
No more would I entreat the luscious green
Which only served the serpent's form to hide;
No longer would provide pastoral scene
Where thorns of harsh betrayal might abide.
And yet, your winsome smile hath placed its seed
Without intent, upon that vacant earth,
And fed with quiet hopes and secret need,
A bud of rarest splendor found its birth.
Such tender grace doth blooming Love impart
When nurtured in the gardens of the heart!
If aught is truth in reaping what you sow,
Then I should find my soul an endless field
With seas of swaying blossoms all aglow,
For such a fertile hope hast thou revealed
In me, with but a brush of gracious hand,
That I suspect my cup shall overflow,
And spill my joy upon the thirsty land
To further urge my passion's seed to grow.
I shall in wonder stand, my soft regard
So rapt upon this wondrous verdancy,
And there remain, until my spirit's yard
Hath overgrown with you, and swallowed me.
A monument I'll stand, with blissful face,
Entwined in evergreen of Love's embrace.
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
[This message has been edited by Skyfyre (edited 02-05-2000).]