Usually with words I am spoilt for choice;
But there isn't a birdsong that touches your voice.
There are no earthy things that I can compare,
The softest of silks cant describe your hair.
And no castle or fortress, of whatever design
Can make me feel safer, than your hand in mine.
Not a feather or snowflake, as the days get colder
Nothing is softer or lighter than your head on my shoulder.
I could spend years writing this, and wracking my brain,
But the impossibility of describing you would drive me insane.
For no land I search or sea I sail,
Will help me describe you, in all your detail.
No waterfall or summer's day,
No painting of oil, or sculpture of clay,
No desert island, no flowered field,
Not the sharpest sword, not the strongest shield,
No oak tree or cloudless sky,
No ladybird or butterfly,
No diamond, sapphire, ruby, pearl,
No king, no queen, no lord, no earl,
No frankincense, no myrrh, no silver or gold?
Nothing, anywhere, young or old.
I could search the world, walk a million miles
But nothing helps me describe your smiles.
So I can only do the best I can,
But I can't do you justice, I'm only a man.
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Comments about this poem (Details by Harry Radcliffe )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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