Sonnet

My Love was truer than an axiom
Or any theorem of geometry,
Her voice melodious of idiom,
And tinged with accent of the North Country.
Her beauty pure as sunlight and refined,
As innocent, unblemished as her mind.
My Love held no contempt for any man,
Nor germ of hate, no matter how deserved,
And in her compliment was swift élan,
And in her criticism was reserve.
Could I her loveliness forever scan,
Would I her charms eternally preserve;
My Love, what madness did afflict me so
That I should’ve left you? I’ll never know.

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