Simple Perfection

                 

1                Though we not have talked nor walked,

2                As would two so enamored do,

3                Perhaps more than watched and gawked,

4                Could distance the words undo.

5                So a poem, this, I write for thee:

6                My miserable mute convection,

7                Which exalts that, which all can see,

8                Is you, such simple perfection.