A Poet's Confession 20 January 1999 Her mind is an insatiable sponge absorbing all around her. Her intellect is like glass, admitting the light of heaven and reflecting it. Her friendship, oh her friendship! of all things the most rare. and therefore most rare, because most excellent: whose comforts in misery are always sweet, whose counsels in prosperity are ever fortunate. Nothing is so contagious as her enthusiasm: it is the real allegory of Orpheus; it moves stones, it charms brutes. Her enthusiasm is the genius of sincerity, and truth accomplishes nothing without it. I don't think a braver woman, more active-valiant, or more valiant young, more daring, or more bold, is now alive, to grace this earth with more noble deeds. When I approach her loveliness, so absolute she seems, and in herself complete, so well to know her own, that what she wills to do or say, seems wisest, virtuousest, discretest, best; all higher knowledge in her presence falls. Degraded. Wisdom in discourse with her loses. Her eyes, her lips, her cheeks, her shapes, her features, seem to be drawn by love's own hand; by love, himself in love.
Reason for writing:
snippets from many poets/philosophers I brought together to describe someone...yet i was chastised by the one i describe...is it wrong to show i still care and how i feel?
Birth sign: Not entered
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by ray phillips.