As Dawn inhales her first breath,
and sends it out upon the winds o'er the sleeping earth;
here, in nature's own domaine,
as we behold,
God's own glorious gold heralding this day's birth;
as rens and robins, on this glad morn,
join our hearts' melody,
and beckon spring, and our love be born:
May we traverse this journey with hearts and hands intwined?
For best, for worst,
bound by velvet cords of heart, soul, and mind;
'till breath of life be swallowed up in winds of eternity;
Will thou make all my years as days with thee?
Antonia, will you answer Me?
At noonday fair, as softly, silently grows,
our love's most fair and tender rose;
with many tasks finished, yet more to come;
yet, for a season, leaving those,
for a time of brief, but sweet repose;
As sheltering shade shields us,
from Summer's scorching sword,
canst thou afford to sit and share thy soul with me,
as in love's wondrous glow of morn?
For who hath plucked and smelled the rose,
that hath not beheld and felt the thorn?
I pray thee, walk with me through years of joy,
and fragments of fleeting fears,
incumpassed round about by walls of sattin stone,
ne'er worn away by rains of tears,
With heart and voice, swear true,
as I do,
saying and it thus shall be?
Oh thou beating of mine own heart,
Antonia, will you answer me?
Near draws the dusk,
life's wistful journey all but complete,
and rest now from the sword's blazing, bitter heat;
as snow of red and golden hews,
once a lush and lively green,
spreads its blanket o'er the earth,
do not refuse.
take not from me my heart's own dream,
For Winter hastens;
soon chill and frost,
will bid us cross the thresh-hold of eternity.
Oh, say once more,
as oft' before,
e'er these twain branches cease to be,
and fulfill the plan,
returning to the hand
of Him who fassioned thee and me.
For daily, have I questioned thee,
by ever loving faithfully;
Antonia, will you answer me?
From frail, fragile dust,
two hearts, born to trust . . .
And I have born thee up on love's velvet wings.
Thou hast become a pauper,
to make of me a king.
Thou hast sat and heard my reason,
thou hast lain with me in pleasure's arms;
thou hast stood with me what e'er the season:
loss and laughter . . .
tumult and tranquility . . .
health and harm.
For what is love, but a breathless question,
which only answered right can be,
love for love,
and life with life of requited blessing,
which can never quite requited be.
What strands of spun silver,
what gold from Heaven's streets can recompense the answer thou hast given me?
For we are bound with silken fetters,
with naught but love 'twixt me and thee,
and yet, as darkness reaches forth his icy hand to grasp my soul,
and Winter's blustery breath commands me
trade the darkness of time for the eternity of dawn,
as rens and robins, still sing on,
you'll hear my heart's joy unceasingly;
thou hast lived love's part,
therefore, in Spring's skies, fly thou free,
with love for love,
from thine own heart,
Antonia . . . thou hast answered me!
Copyright 2004 by Quipster
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.