Orea

Would thee compare me to an exquisite jewel? Nay kind sir. But compare me to the ring on my finger. It's silver twisting and turning, winding Ne'er stopping. It's stone appears cracked yet held firm Catching the sunlight yet harbouring shadows Deep boring holes. Should thee compare me to a blossom fresh? I say again sir, nay. But compare me with the rushes, rosemary and may That now adorn my bed. Darker than life, they crumble and fall, Die at the touch. Yet their odour remains long after disposal Oft bitter to those who remain. Could thee compare me to a Angel pure? Nay blind sir, do not. But compare me to the shroud in whi