Something is cast in beauty that receives
the mind and won’t let go: it seems as fine
as sunlight dappling beneath the eaves
or yellow jasmine fragrant on the vine,
and you, with florid lips and furtive eyes,
inviting me to cross that whirlwind sign;
it keeps compelling me to recognize
this look of yours, in half a measure’s time,
is only half of splendor’s sacred prize.
For music sought inside this holy rhyme,
the scent of flowers, and the taste of wine
all flee to me from Rodin’s cold sublime—
when last I tempt that spell and cross that line
then take your hand and press your lips to mine.
from Autumn Sky Poetry DAILY, February 21, 2017 — by Gregory Palmerino
Sculpture by Auguste Rodin courtesy of Rodin Museum