A thief has scaled the fortress of my soul,
And run off with a treasure hidden there:
A ruby red as blood, warm as a coal,
And now I ache with rapture and despair:
Despair because the maiden of my peace
Is ravished, and she tears her hair and moans;
Rapture for the thought that will not cease:
This thief may come again to scale these stones
And in her tender avarice approach
My treasure chamber seeking jewels bright
To fasten on her fairness as a broach,
And I may lay a spell on her that night.
But lovely burglar, bring back what you hold,
And you shall have its riches hundred-fold!
George Chadderdon © 2006