•Not a rose, or a lily,
•But a buttercup
•Languishing in a field of gold,
•In some English meadow
•Waiting to give herself to him.
•
•That boy with the impetuous smile
•And the eyes of Perseus,
•That hides a spirit more
•Delicate than any poet’s heart.
•But not from her,
•
•Like the chalk streams of England, giving birth to the May fly
•Every day is our love, our lifetime,
•I celebrate the nightingale, and the wren,
•For their song is our song,
•Our home, this England, this love,
•
•This place where the swallows fly their dance of love,
•And where the pheasants strut in all their majesty
•My words I gladly share with them
•
•Kept safe, among the fields of gold,
•Safe in our English meadow,
•Intoxicated by natures glory
•
•For your love gives meaning to my existence
• Makes me more, than I am meant to be
•And my poem of love I give to you.
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