Sonnet Amongst Flowers, Storms

 Among the flowers, my young muse steals

            With daring, darting, glancing skips,

Of every hue she makes a meal

            And naught but laughter courts her lips.

We jaunt atop a foreign mount,

            So close we knew it hardly real,

Where pansies burst of heavens fount

            And bloom with shades that bring to heel:

All that a man could claim his own,

            While beauty stirs the springtime bees,

He might hardly hold where he may roam,

            His only fear: that it should cease.

But treetops bend, as catch the eyes,

A darker hue now claims the skies.