The sun, thy face—but nay!  The sun
Is glory burning fierce on high.
I would not have thee in the sky,
But here, with me, when day hath done.
Nor is thy beauty fierce, to shun
Lest beauty's brightness harm the eye—
Unless there's harm in heartfelt sigh
Or kiss, from which sweet dreams are spun.

Diana was both moon and maid,
Woman cast from heavenly mold,
Which then, we thought, aside was laid.
My lady recalls days of old:
We thought the goddess gone too soon,
Elvira's smile renews the moon.

Copyright © 1975 by Green Sky Press.  All rights reserved.  This poem won the grand prize of the contest for the title of "Poet to the Prince of Caid".  Backgrounds and images are copyright by their respective authors, who retain all rights.