Wortley Clutterbuck

 

Elizabeth, where can ye be?

I’ve waited a lifetime for thee;

I know you’re out there, set apart,

because of words that say thou art.

 

The person that I’d love the best

won’t look like they’d hold much int’rest;

the person that I’ll truly love

may not look like whom I’ve thought of.

 

It’s hard to find the perfect mate

when vision’s often insensate;

it’s not her figure or her clothes —

there’s other qualities I chose.

 

The portraits of her don’t disguise

I won’t love this one with my eyes;

but when I listened to her mind,

I knew that this love would be blind.

 

The one that I may first ignore

will often be her I adore;

Elizabeth, without Facetune —

it’s what’s inside that makes me swoon.

 

Forget her smile, her looks, her way —

these ornaments change day to day;

I’ll count the ways that I’ve been smote —

it’s from the comely words she wrote.

 

Elizabeth, it’s who ye are

and not some hollow avatar;

it’s not how your form gets arrayed,

it’s from the poems ye have made.