The Lovely Valley Of Her Breast Poem by Nero CaroZiv

There is the vale; the lovely vale which none has seen,
Where lustful claw or palm of man has never crawled, prowled or been,
Such it is and such it lives what I watch with toil and strife,
The pangs the sighs and the turmoil and my an anxious sinful life.
There in the lovely valley of her breast every virtue has its birth,
Ere she descends to walk upon the earth,
And thither every deed of her returns,
Which in this generous bosom burns.


There in her breast love is warm, and youth is sprouting young,
Music is yet un composed and poetry is yet unsung.
For virtue still adventures there,
And freely breathes from her nostril her native sublime air.


And ever, if you hearken and watch the surrounding well,
You still may hear her voice of violins and bell,
And tread of every man who walks by,
His thoughts will be conversing with the spirits in the sky.

And she is not mine; would she ever be; I wish I was lost in all of her
And who would not long in such personality to be
I shall be lost as a candle lit against the glorious moon air
Lost as a fragile snowflake in the vast vexed sea.


She who possesses such rare beauty without vanity,
Elegance and strength without Insolence,
Courage without ferocity,
And all the possible virtues of Mankind without its Vices.



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