Once more I search for fresh, amusing, terse
New ways to say "I love you," as I mean,
In fourteen lines of pentametric verse,
With each iamb iambic, each rhyme clean.
Do I extol your heart, your mind, your face,
Or how you make me burn? It's all been penned,
By me or someone else who knows the pace:
ABAB, a couplet at the end.
Despairing, I begin, look back, and then
I find it's done, and with the same old zeal.
One reason lets me do it still again.
Flat paper cannot hold what lovers feel.
With words extreme or subtle, weird or trite,
It never will be said exactly right.