The Duchess {a Sonnet} Poem by John Lars Zwerenz

THE DUCHESS {A SONNET}

In the softness of the warm and sunny, sunlit spring,
Up high, upon the dappled cradle of a terrace,
Above the vast wood, where the gleaming streams race,
I can hear the tender voice of my lady sweetly sing.

Her mane is long and black, and her face is fair, divine,
And the many beauteous aspects of her soul's felicity
Graces her every song of the breeze with sanctity,
Which enchants every tree in the redolent air of wine.

And as the cool, nascent evening rises with the moon,
My heart falls into a rapturous boon
Struck by her eyes of a brownish, bright hue.

She descends from the balcony, as the sighing, elysian dew
Rejoices in the shadows where all ecstasies await
As my duchess does draw near, through her garden's open gate.

JOHN LARS ZWERENZ