‘Tis day was promised to thee
A gift of poetry if thou hadst, ‘‘tis would be
On her birthday Ay, while she grows sublime and beautiful
shall I write not as usual
But in thy manner of Shakespeare from streets of old England
What Thou desires shall be thine if thou wilts oh, ‘tis day of happy hours
I love thee hairs as God loveth Mary’s womb
Magic is thy existence that young leaves dances with winds on a rivers shores
‘Tis and where thou art? Why she runn’st like a butterfly?
Her wings shine as wondrous as daffodils climbs the sky from dirt and soil
What shall I say more, thinketh not but feel it O crazy Heart and damned soul
Thou art amidst stars a star that burned my world
Ashes remained and few words and a little courage
To seek thy greatness so far wide and stretched like the heavens above
Thee has many gifts more valuable than this gift of slackers slack
For I some quacks of ducks are enough to live with
Their bath is enough to seduce my heart in decay and waste lands
But for thee O my Dearesth, I shall steel a harem from sultans palace
All the jewels, linen, cloths, rich appetite, warm showers, old tales and slave girls shall be thine to be served
Than if thou hadst been satisfied still ‘tis what thou beauty deserves
A clock I must make that ticks not for future but for past centuries in Ancient Rome
There in Rome thou temple I must build for thee
Vanquishing Venus name shall I put thy name as Goddess of beauty to be worshipped
Thou art will be then praised for generations and generations to come ‘tis day of happy hours
Thou has born thank thy Lord that maketh you so desirable
Long live thee my wish to thee as my labors to thee
And as light to darkness shall be lighted in manner of day and night
‘tis day of happy hours shall last long to eternity
The Portrait of an Artist 