Man: If I could only speak the wonder, the pulsing
thunder of my ardent sense of her, how my way
has curved since that chance first event of her.
If I could say it all
don't you think that I would?
But the words ebb, then stall in sounds
unclear, loud as sunlight charging-
through broken clouds,
but if I could soar like Keats -
beyond this pall I'd reach
and in a gilded chariot
with an angel for a guide,
far o'er the earthly scene so wide -
I'd jaunt across the majestical roof,
never worry about being aloof,
we'd circuit the lonely moon and
surf the clouds of shy Neptune
and before the day was done
I'd bathe in the whirling sun
and sing my songs to Her, with verve,
and dine in luxury on all that's served
at the table of the firmament.
With this, I think, I'd be content.
Yet I longed for the promised land of her heart,
or even a postcard with her name.
