Charlotte

A heavenly rhyme, 

with all the utterance of time. 

But it is with great hope, 

with great love, 

I give you mine. 

The spring trees glint, glimmer, and splay the pleasant, 

it is more when I look aside. 

The curly locks of Charlotte, 

the girl of the wood,

the twirl which once she stood.

Eyes of little hint, 

from which mine came to glint.