an unnamed poem
by rhiannon macgregor

wile with me, the passing hours
unto the light of day,
upon these scented, satin bowers
as only lovers may.

linger here, until the dawn,
your lips upon my brow,
the nightingale will soon be gone,
the lark comes even now.

pause awhile, do not yet flee
the waking eyes of morn,
tho at that hour we shall be
two lovers cruelly torn.

abide within my loving arms
a fleeting moment more
and let the memory of your charms
sustain me as before.

and when the sun at last does rise,
and make it's presence known
despite our lingering goodbyes,
i'll know you are my own.