I write verse enough about you to make old professors weep
and leave the art's aficionados languishing in sleep,
But have your form, your words, your laugh endeared you most
to me,
Or am I drawn to you as one of Sherlock's mysteries?
Are your charms as good as endless, like a wood's or foreign
land's,
Or will infatuation weaken once I understand?
If you choose this very moment, and you bind me to your face
Will I marvel at my fortune or lament your lack of taste?
Of the labyrinthine puzzles that our science can unfurl,
None are near as complex as what draws me to a girl.
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