Dear love, you are a snow-girt swan who glides
Along the pearly traces of a lake
For in your breast, unearthly grace resides:
A power, like morn’s bud, wide and awake.
You are a nymph who rests within the ebb
Of some cool stream, whose smile traces stars.
Dear love, within your beauty’s twining web,
I have been tangled. Your bright crest unbars
With fairest summer weather and spring nights,
And autumn afternoons, stowed with the dreams,
Of golden evenings, and of winter sprites
Which wend around the forests, wrapped in beams.
Dear love, your heart’s as soft as flakes of snow
That dot the mountains and the moors. Fresh dew
Which drips across the flower’s golden brow
Is all the gentleness that makes you, you.
Have we ne’er met before, maid of the lea,
Where gleaming, murm’rous brooks all gently moan,
What would have isolation left of me?
If not for you, I would have died alone.
© 2014 Gleb Zavlanov
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