Abreast we lie, allay, Whilst you tenderly sip Cold — asleep. I survey: Wisps arise from your lips And they quiver, murmur Of dreams, your eyes flutter; But O, my fair amour, Your cheeks — their colour! A morning rose would not Glory jovial blush As they do. Minute blots Of pale yellow, like lush Lilius, freckle them; As would a painter Nimbly texture a stem. Astute oil, only fainter. No sharpness to touch, No bones to flay And mal-form. Dunes of Kutch, Soft, white — a duvet Blanketing, as the snow Outside veils the hill. Winter supplies the glow That warms this mourning chill. All too calm. I must be Aware that I cannot hold — Basking in serenity — That of Midas’ Gold. For now, the ice is outside So, leave us to bide As two lovers embrace — Sensing their love erase.