The Bard to His Love, at Length

It is a tale as old as history itself: two young lovers, one mortal, one immortal, drawn together by the strands of Fate. But ah, amorous youth! – the journey is not an easy one. Let us gaze upon one such scene, even now in progress, and witness the tragic tragedy of a romance that was never meant to be…

O splendid Queen, to mine own heart so dear
Whose eyes, twin suns, twin lanterns, gleam sublime
Thy subjects dot the vast celestial sphere
Thy praises, ranks of cherubs constant chime
Thy face, like Helen, launched a thousand hearts
Though Helen never spoke as fair as thee,
Whose dulcet voice in graceful notes imparts
Thy wisdom, keen as Hell’s severest darts!

Were thou but mute, I might still be asleep!
Pray write some tale of unrequited love
And take it somewhere far away, and weep
Where bards perhaps are thought more highly of.
Mere time, ’tis said, the broken heart repairs
And might I add, that silence wouldn’t hurt –
‘Twere best, keep private all thy heart’s affairs,
And ride away, and tell someone who cares!

O wretched Chance! My fate is ever such:
My blushing rose doth prick me with her thorns –
Yet do I love the sting – nay, thrice so much
Because of that perfection it adorns.
Less faithful beaus, ’tis true, might be dismayed
And founder, as a bark amid the storm –
But guided by thy star, I’ll not be swayed –
Remember me, the constant bard who stayed!

Yea, how could I forget? Thy nightly pleas
Incessant ’til the very crack of dawn
Have all the charm of drunken bumblebees
Who, lacking honey, heedless bumble on –
O unwashed hair! O stench! O chin so cleft!
Remember thee, the constant bard who stayed?
The trick would be, I’d wager, far more deft
Could thou but be the constant bard who left!

Were I to leave, thy face would haunt me still
Thy velvet lips, lush gardens of desire
Thy supple skin, whose light, against my will
Doth alternately tempt me, and inspire;
O elven race! Like silk, thy raven hair
How slim thy curves! How sheer thy pedestal!
Thy soul divine! In form, how passing rare!
‘Twould be unjust to call thee merely fair!

Wilt thou shut up! I’ll give it to thee straight:
Thy face into a castle wall be rammed –
Thy tongue be tied – O sweet poetic fate –
Iambic verse, and thee, alike be damned –
Is this my curse, for being born an elf?
Eternally to live, inspiring fools?
Put back thy pointless passions on the shelf –
Forsooth! I’ll come and take thee out myself!

Yet verily –

It was at this moment that the elven sylph hurled a clock down upon the hapless bard, who, already Smitten With Love, was subsequently Smitten With One of Her Family Heirlooms. Not every tale can have a happy ending – but it’s nice to see that this one did.

I wrote this back in January 2006, during my junior year of college.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.