Sonnet to a Portuguese

If I could write with half so fine a hand
As thoughts of you in song my heart can sing,
The tome should be a bright and jeweled thing
A host of Muses called at my command.

For often as I, contemplating, stand,
The sunshine's warmth your touch to me doth bring
And laughing, then, my heart to yours takes wing
To fly in daydreams.  But such visions grand

Can sometimes seem to fade or disappear
As that which I would longingly possess
Is held beyond my grasp by shades of fear.
So love and doubt entwine to bring distress.
And while my heart and verse would hold you near
They hesitate, the wholeness to address.


                                 Spring, 1989
                                   for P.G.E