Sunday, February 13, 2011

And You, my Dear, my Happy Dear.

A man finds home stepping out of doors.
He lives in roaming on outdoor floors,
Who would sleep on grass or thistle down
but that his parents set unfound bounds.

A homely house makes not a home.
Not like a woman's eyes.
A bed and breakfast make not love,
not like a quiet, peaceful sigh.

All men cling fast to woman,
to hope and happy lives.
What word is now more grand
or more happy than that one: Wife.

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