All English Sonnets
If mere touch of your beloved fingers,
Is sufficient to make me years younger;
Perform this miracle and rejoice,
Erasing every wrinkled nagging worry.
Your many pleasured presence and its flurry,
Your musical and cooing, honeyed voice,
Your thousand pleasured breasts, and my hunger,
For everything, in which your fragrance lingers,
Are elements so strongly volatile,
That if you hold me close for a while,
Then limping years, with a tread virile,
Would flit me back along the endless mile,
To regions ere my birth,- wholly lost,
In getting you beyond my pathless past.