Sonnet to a Brief Encounter
Christopher Moya
However she was beautified to me
Is riddling I can't unriddle well,
But only her inscribe when I perceived
Just where she meant her darling eyes to fall.
And then, her every awkward simper lit
In me a bonfire, a paragon of bliss.
We spoke so briefly, but how I was smit
By every courtesy and pleasantness.
How grand she is, recalled in after light,
The moment stretching out when, like a lance,
She passed me in a door and said, "good night,"
And left the prospect of a hurried glance.
I knew my heart's commotion wouldn't wane,
But found just then -- I hadn't caught her name.
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