As the moon drifts and quiet as you lie
and howl of winter slips by the door
drift my sweet lady, do sleep and do sigh
writing such words, from my heart they do pour!
Fade and keep warm in the dark of your bed
swift will I share tender scent of your skin–
lilies compare not, through fields though they spread
to your smell and your charm source of my sin.
So ponder your dreams and when you awake
fresh as the new fallen snow in the dell
look South to my window, far past the lake
I sit here and write, of you and do tell:
My words are not meant for others to see
They worship your grace and your majesty.