Sonnet: Virginal Desire

This spirit, prisoner of quietness
For more than two long months, doth newly rise
From silent depths, and to the high address
Of Love and Poetry his wailing cries
Of Solitude impart, with hands as keen
On writing as his eyes are on beholding
The beauty in thine eyes, that lovely sheen,
And cannot wait to see thy gowns' unfolding.
O chide me not, my Love, for that desire,
Which burns inside my breast, a craving flame,
A scarlet glow, my passion's crimson fire –
O chide me not, or else I'll blush in shame!
Is it a sin that I desire thee?
I can't believe! – Thou art too dear to me!

(C) 2001