Who But Could The Saints Preserve Us, Resist Her Poem by Mark Heathcote

Here alone-lying-on this cotton pillow.
I can still recall the lure of her lily scent:
Bouquets do me gaze and camphor and shadow
Never a dull moment does the heart repent:

Her fragrance, what; a promiscuous, allure.
Such elicit essences spring ajar the dart
What an art this palpable kiss velour.
How it courses through my head and lonely heart.

Then swept-on bye with brocades of flower
Spent-fallen, from Piety, a honeysuckle
Vine; twisting around, the Lover's Lane Larkspur.
Who in the world could be gleeful, yet; still bashful?

Who but could the saints preserve us, resist her.
Maybe; only the 'Morning Star her goddess sister.'