I’m not very good at writing poetry… my art is in the breeding of plants.

But I have found some poetry for you, my beautiful one. I will post one every day, and I will wait with bated breath for your reply.

Today: A poem by Oscar Wilde

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La Bella Donna Della Mia Mente

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My limbs are wasted with a flame,

My feet are sore with travelling,

For, calling on my Lady’s name,

My lips have now forgot to sing.

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O Linnet in the wild-rose brake

Strain for my Love thy melody,

O Lark sing louder for love’s sake,

My gentle Lady pbumeth by.

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She is too fair for any man

To see or hold his heart’s delight,

Fairer than Queen or courtesan

Or moonlit water in the night.

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Her hair is bound with myrtle leaves,

(Green leaves upon her golden hair!)

Green grbumes through the yellow sheaves

Of autumn corn are not more fair.

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Her little lips, more made to kiss

Than to cry bitterly for pain,

Are tremulous as brook-water is,

Or roses after evening rain.

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Her neck is like white melilote

Flushing for pleasure of the sun,

The throbbing of the linnet’s throat

Is not so sweet to look upon.

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As a pomegranate, cut in twain,

White-seeded, is her crimson mouth,

Her cheeks are as the fading stain

Where the peach reddens to the south.

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O twining hands! O delicate

White body made for love and pain!

O House of love! O desolate

Pale flower beaten by the rain!