Oh, this crushing heavy ache,
these long, long sleepless nights,
when all around is hawthorn bloom,
lilies and the nightingale.
Why must I choose, why?
between two such perfect maids
that come this misty morn.
Maia, fair bedecked in apple white,
her woven tresses kiss our dewy emerald lawns,
whilst cherry pink among the silver bark
rides Bona Dea upon her hobby horse.
Both come to dance the garland round,
Blossom-laden heavy, but lightly trip’d,
around the virgin pole, a ribbon romance,
To stir this erstwhile poet thus.
Why must I choose?
© Graham Sherwood
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