Your hair is flowing, floating, dancing through the sultry air,
caressing the breeze and leaves that swirl, but not so majestically as
those soft, silky, sensual locks of yours: gold, black or brown.
Nothing can compare to your crowning glory that I rejoice in, through verse.Or song? Would you like me to seranade you as a minstrel?
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this reminds me of andrew marvel's elizabethan methaphysical poems which i love, very Orlado