The Thief

By: Herenicus Posted on: February 02, 2010

A queenly scepter doth she wield,

When e'er her lips in curving yield,

I search, to find, to fate resigned,

As starving wolves will hunt the hind.

Beneath the night, beside the tide,

Eastward! Toward where Heathens bide,

Where churchmen please to take their ease,

And finding one named Pericles.

If richly dressed, then poorly scarred,

Behold Her Captain of the Guard,

And what, by fate, his helm adorned,

An orchid! Mine to steal, as sworn.

The striped gem, as worn by him,

Chagrined, my chanced success was slim,

And slipping from the blackest wind,

I paid in blood what love would spend.

His Shield of Justice, swinging low,

I leapt, but half-absorbed the blow,

And by his crest, careening past,

My fingers found the flow'r at last.

But in my joy I nigh forgot,

The power lying prone hath not,

And rolling, I belated tried,

To slip the sword that struck my side.

Then bleeding, dumb with disbelief,

Could e'er she love so poor a thief?

And pushing feet against the street,

I, wincing, stood and faced defeat.

Then with a speed I ne'er had seen,

My cheekbones blessed, my baalzadeen,

With sharper wits than I confess,

Sought refuge, I to convalesce.

Now lying languidly reposed,

So near embraced by dying throes,

This bloodied man, as thee hath read,

Prays that she might love rhymes instead.