My nightingale sings of passing flesh,
which daily sought to find itself in lover’s eyes,
to time, it seemed no less than transient,
but loving endless below immortal skies.

I find myself not waning to become,
nor lasting be, for I have never been,
this form has never loved beyond redeem,
nor loved to end, or ending to begin.

I know no fair beyond these mortal eyes,
but thee I loved, au reste, forevermore,
no other pleasing face could gradually give
this heart eternal brio and rapport.

(C) Brianna Rose Burton 2011

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