Vincent P. Russo, Jr.
In the stillness of morning's early light
Sometimes I waken, and as I might,
Lying there with head propped upon my elbow,
Gaze most fondly at the beauty on your pillow.
In mind I trace the contour of your face
As in concealment in pillow lace
You sleep unmindful of my thought's caress;
Unmindful, too, of my poor heart's pounding stress.
For in truth, my hungry soul's aflame,
It cries out beyond sweet passion's fame,
And in the softness of morning's tenderest view,
Is held captive by the quiet serenity of you.