I tried to write some lines for you today
To celebrate another year of you,
And maybe in my grasping, fumbling way
Depict the highest ideal I pursue.
But one needs Shakespeare, Wordsworth or a Browning
To capture perfect beauty with just words.
I start the task, abandon it, with frowning
At my conceit (it's utterly absurd).
You voice puts me in such a pleasant spell
From heart to pen the words won't make a start.
I curse these meager lines of doggerel
And pray instead you'll hear what's in my heart.
And so I'll not attempt a birthday rhyme.
Your sonnet must await some other time.