Had she been born in the age of Donne
He would've compared her to the rising sunne;
which on her neck such lustre sets
that even her sweat-drops look like pearl coronets.

The cadence of her voice, her soft murmuring
would've reminded him of some sweet spring
that flows from the holy Mount Parnassus-
Such are the thoughts that cause me distress.

Forgive me, sire John, I don't mean to be comparing thus,
but I think her beautiful, and myself odious.
Mr. ------'s love is not for me
for I lack things by which she can beautiful be.

I am dull, while she is bright enough
My smiles scanty, my manner rough.
My cheeks are yellow, my hair's brown
and on my forehead there's a perpetual frown.

He feels my brain's not in the usual place -
And why WOULD someone dote on my pale face?
She's fair - I wish I could be like her.
And since I cannot, she is singular.

Yet so good she cannot be,
if she inspires in me a vice, jealousy.
And in the end I must confess
I'm glad that of beauty I have less
and more of love - for it shall not decay
like beauty does. Forever it shall stay.

Though my fond hope does lie
on its death-bed, it refuses to die.
It breeds more love in me, so I shall not
let the seeds of love in my heart rot.
And if my love can his heart win...
... May he open those doors and let me in !!

~Riya~

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