Europe's Skies (Sonnet 20) (Poem by Shaly)

To the one who I wish I can in someway make my everything. The sweet breath of a sea zephyr (sweeter than wild berries) wafts the perfume of wanton vines of lavender heather on stone walls and sweet is a violin strain, But sweeter are your steps of thunder that asunder the marge of sand washed by the iron green waves, and dulcet is the whisper of your voice at the blush morning, The fire of the golden dawn makes me fain a laugh in a breathless gasp as I do in the veil of silver ocean mist, as the breathless dancers of the red hush Spain, And when I wonder down paths of stone under pale moonlight and white lily perfume, I see Europe’s skies and think of you in the lilac blue evening. For crimson clouds of dusk in Parisian temples and fields of Italian lavender, and exotic Spanish fruit at the sun- drenched ancient markets, are not wonderous, They hold no beauty, not French wine of rose petals and red grapes, or music of oaken curved lutes, nor Austrian organs, they do not leave me in awe of splendor, The flustered morning European heaven where the blue halcyon weep do not still my breath nor the cold Baltic sea makes me fear to whisper a solid utterance, For even if I heard the sigh of an angel or heard the star’s laughter or nymph’s song, I would not fall in breathless sleep, sweeter than sinful fruit’s nectar! For I have heard German tales of slumbering pale maidens with tender flush lips and porcelain cheeks, I have seen the lilac ether of olden Europe, I have seen seven pale stars like the lavender snowy lilies at a moonlit brook float upon the midnight scarlet heaven, and Roman ashen (ashen as wool) figures, I have seen the armor and gowns of the Barbaric, I have worn the jasmine perfume of the Indian gardens of Shalamar, even the soft temple murals of infant cherubs, But nothing in the lotus gentle skies of Asia or the blood sift European heaven, have I dreamt of the golden rose fire of dawn in your tender warm eyes. For Viennese violins songs and jade sweet tinkling operas of man’s haughty voice or flushed Chinese cherry blossoms at the vernal spring bough, Or Baltic fog in frozen dew or pale ocean tampered pearls queens swallow in red rose wine or anything in the European sky is nothing of what you can sough.