Spring Sarabande

by Columbine

Sweet torment of your half-remembered face
And heady poison of your ready song
The season's laudanum-besotted grace
Warps waking world to dreams where I belong
So willingly I stumble on along
As winblown petals whisper of your hand
Through pond and over precipice, no wrong
In dancing where no sunblind maid might stand
Delighting in the fear I might command
Your presence through my sheer audacity
Though sane I'd not presume nor had I planned
To yoke desire to carry you to me
The season shreds resolve to ragged lace
Expect no madwoman to know her place

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