A weekend love is all it was

Oh noetry – bad poetry!

My love does press the roses to my cheek
with spirits, or by spirits spoken true;
A sleeping world in gilt of morning dew.
A nighttime ritual, by night to speak.

To you I do by catchèd breath impart
the trials and the vict’ries of my lot;
The age that parts us sunder, heed ye not:
You know still all the content of my heart.

And yet you know, and I, we will be twain
inevitably in the course of time;
So to you now I dedicate my rhyme
in order that my memory remain.

So when our courtship be yet at an end,
Look on these words, and know me still a friend.

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