A Woman's Name Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

I just love to hear a woman say her name,
munificently dulce to the hungry ear,
feral and stout about herself,
a menace that titillates an imbibe tranquility.

With rivet judgment her epithet adheres,
to a clement sobriquet of mute equanimity,
argent swords nestle together,
to harness this euphonious lullaby.

Now that my eyes are heavy with armour,
pummeled to blindness with age,
an effused chalice I gift to you,
to fill with perennial praise.

I dare not ask for an elegy,
For the merriment of your grace suffice,
a fleur-de-lys I give to thee,
to vest each sweet note whispered.