Who But Could—the Saints, Resist Her... Poem by Mark Heathcote

I am here alone, lying on this cotton pillow.
I can still recall the lure of her lily scent:
Bouquets I gaze, camphor, and shadow...
There is never a dull moment. When the heart repents.

Her fragrance is what she calls 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 flowers
Spent-fallen, from Piety, a honey-suckle,
Vine, twisting around, is 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.'
All aglow in shimmering gold.
On her lightning-embroidered cotton pillow, never letting go.