Wooer

A wooer walks the lane where blossoms sigh,
His heart a drum of hopeful, steady beat;
He courts the moon, he woos the evening sky,
With verses stitched in silk and scented sweet.

He offers roses, plucked at dawning's hush,
Their petals blush like shy confession's glow;
He whispers low beneath the ancient hush,
Where nightingales their wistful verses flow.

Yet time, a fickle tide, may turn his aim,
If luck should stray or fortune's coin grow thin;
Still, he persists, for love's enduring flame
Outshines the doubts that linger deep within.

So let the wooer tread, though winds may chide,
For true affection never yields to pride.