OF ONE I THINK...

Of one I think most frequent still,
in all her brandest new.
With longest of the raven's black,
and ebony's that speak so true.

Aroma of the sweetest rose,
she brings me, every wind of spring.
The few times true aside we stood,
ablazed the heart, I'd let her in.

Now sadder smile not seen before,
a-mirrored in this poet's soul.
A-cursed to be with empty gaze,
but down, now sure of no.