A Sunny Day With Harriet Taylor

I march and strut along these yellow woods,

Whistling to the tunes of a girl in bright tango boots,

Whose little fingers hold the sour nectar of thyme,

To nurse me right when my steps fall out of rhyme.

Little does she know that I live to hear her speak,

On Liberty, on Sunset, on Spirit or just the week,

And in the moments of silence that pass in between,

I experience it more than those who visit the Sistine.

Because in her resides the temple of pious Reason;

Passion brewed to perfection to weather all seasons,

To burn and to masquerade all that is fleeting,

And to remedy and love that which is becoming.

We pass our lazy days under the shades of trees,

Make love and honey near the buzz of the bees,

For our lives lie beyond the pale of the seven seas,

Beyond the mores and duties of the rest of them fleas.

And in her arms I will have vindicated my belief:
That the best of womankind is worth all the wait and the grief,
And that time will reward the man who hopes and believes,
In an ideal whom he wishes some would aspire to and achieve.

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