Two.

Two more poems. I hate coming up with titles.

Ephemeron
Methought thou were a dream.
How touch I now thy hand?
What shadow was, is flesh.
I would thou were a ghost,
For spirit I can keep
Tucked safe within my breast.

But if from humus made,
I need my love deny;
For found, thou may be lost;
And living, thou may die.

Eyne
I often wish to see thy face,
For when I gaze upon the skies,
The orbs illuming cold of space
Are far less warm than thy dark eyes.