Venus, when she is the evening star,
Beguiles the man whose errant glance she draws --
The fool, as did the ancients squinting far,
Admires her beauty, knowing not its cause;
He who to her that lethal journey made
Would find firsthand, concealed by constant clouds,
Her deserts and her endless caustic spate.
Yet daily, when herself in flesh she shrouds,
My flights of fancy tell me you are she;
That I am yours; these thoughts weigh down my mind
And threaten, if I shun them, to destroy it.
But if some stormy path to you I find
And brave it, who knows whether there will be
Enough of me left over to enjoy it?
July 12, 2008.
| 
