Such a hard task, never before have I encountered
as to write how much I love thee,
in just a sonnet.
Hard even for Shakespeare to describe thy eyes,
Hard even for Monet to paint thy silhouette.
I could write a whole sonnet about thy hands,
soft and smooth,
as a nightingales sound so tender.
Thy hair,dancing over a one man´s land,
with its scent so overpowered,
and its touch forces me to surrender.
Oh thee,thy sweet contender
Waiting no more but for the day to come,
for the day to come when my eyes with them thy meet.
To feel thy lips is the angel´s dome
And I love your dreamly candid smile, indeed.
But this sonnet, of sense, would lack
if you choose not to love me back.
So I quit for now, my beautiful,
to keep thy picture in my imagination,
as a piece of all thy wonderful.