The Dame Of Vichy Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

I was conjecturing her name
(it must have been as sweet as she)
She was a most alluring dame,
a blessing on the spa Vichy.

She stood apart among her peers:
her fitting figure, full-blown lips,
her deep-set eyes, her delicate ears,
cheeks like vermillion-pink tulips.

One of the poet's caste can lavish
on a love epithets, much ornate!
Thus, go berserk and turn a hellish
buff of her beauty incarnate!

My bark was heave-to the above course. -
My passion scribbled fancy notes.
Most time I was wandering outdoors:
the esplanades were my picked routes.

Once on a mellow evening spell
I spotted her in a bowered arch.
I melted at the sight and fell
enthused with tenderness as such!

(occurs to one as if he's known
someone in person for a lovetime)
She sat invitingly alone,
clad in her Aphroditian caftan.

The dame looked up and nodded smiling
at me. I blushed and sat by her.
Meantime, with our time beguiling
we knew what next the pause deferred.

I took her hand in mine and kissed it;
she stroke my hair with another.
Neither of us to that resisted
as we became avowed lovers.

I to the dame my poem recited;
she listened heaving shapely bust.
We both were so delighted
at the success of our tryst!

The dame was called Eleonore...
Of her I saw then final last.
Oh, mon Dieu doux, oh, mon Amoure!
Love's ephemeral, short-lived gust!