Sentimentality

Would that I could rest upon true-love’s ripening vine,
to float and laugh and carry on as lovers do at times.
But fiction and fancy jest and crow, leaving me behind.
It is for them to obtain kisses warm and many.
They care not for jealous eyes nor fountain’s wishing pennies.
So I am left to wait upon the brink of morning dew,
seeing and never touching, smelling and never tasting
that mysterious and weighty vine where true-love’s ripening.

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