Comparisons of beauty are easy
not when a summer’s day and Tralee’s rose
are lacking in originality.
The feeling for her that I have still grows,
perhaps because we are so held apart.
This is to me a predicament new,
one which late at night doth pain my heart.
Around me people jest it is love true.
Rarely ‘fore one’s eyes does such beauty pass.
Rarer still it’s felt reciprocated.
A friendship that I wish will ever last,
a feeling hoped will ne’er be out-dated.
As this I write ‘the woman of my dreams’
Shall remain just out of my reach, it seems…