Like a lady on the lookout for her Prince
Here I recline on Love’s sill
Not to the horizon I survey
But upwards do my eyes bound
It’s a labor, an expectation of a birth within
An infant flame crying out to You
She is born, my Love!
Come quick to my bedside!
And cradling this sweet heat, I approach the sill
Calling the Prince Who conceived her breath
Poetry
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