Venus, when she is the
evening star,
Be
guiles 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.