Ah, Rita, 'tis my Love who makes me melt
Into this thing defined as poetry,
E'en as she makes me feel what I ne'er felt,
Or doubt the place of serrendipity.
Ah, she, that beauty of some distant sphere,
Sent but to comfort me upon this plane,
Becomes, in passing time, more grand and dear
Than life would prove, were she not present, vain.
Therefore, from time to time, I singh her praise,
As she, though beautiful as she is fair,
Makes outer beauty naught, but by her ways,
Or me, aesthetics' child, forget to stare.
Should I prove hard, and that indeed too much,
She melts me down but with her love or touch!