Afore The Cockerel Crows

Who is this muse before me stood?

I know her not, I say.

A temperate stirring of the blood,

I bid her go away.

Her seducing, warm, pacific smile,

The shining in her eye;

I watch her handsome form a while

And yet, her I deny.

I look, once more, a further glance

Affirming what I thought.

A glowing, flowing, countenance

Upon mine eyes here brought.

I bid her go, a second time,

Yet, still, she must remain

Sparkling in the morning rime

Be gone, I say, again.

I close my eyes and hope to see

Her off before I wake.

An angel come to beckon me

And for my soul to take.

My eyes are opened, looking on,

Aroused from my repose ~

I'd surely bid her thrice begone

Afore the cockerel crows.

                 ASJ