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Sonnet 24/02/03                        DCCXCII

White roses for my sweet dryad: To fill
Her days with beauty, nights with soft perfume.
How can I offer more? Should I presume
To think my lines might more than rose instill?
I cannot give her stars- I have not will
To alter heaven to give her a crown.
My words have not the warmth of quilted down,
Nor can I from dreams soothe all of world's ill.
Yet, I may offer all that I have found
Of sweet, and sadness, sorrows and bright joy.
What more can any ask? To give to muse
Some part of one's existence leaves one bound
To more than mortal plane. Time may destroy
My hopes, but I shall not ever dreams lose.