daily that i fall in love, upon mine trembled stand commute,
beseeching eyes that fall upon the day that seem so resolute;
hourly should i falter once, and twice as much should i choose not,
against the steepled tropics rain, before the sunless burning hot.
daily that i find new kin, and friends with whom i share our woes,
while some wry of golden sixpence, and others of lacked passion throes;
timely as i while away by reading into strangers' eyes -
belying tired, languid tales, betraying hopeful, cheery lives.
regardless of their coloured sheens, or practiced thoughts of godly-tales,
one can but tell of kindred bonds, that disregard such ebon pales;
and though i pretend to have read, perused upon mine pages bland,
there are none more interesting tales to have heard from across the land,
such as those told through silent speech,
through smiles and coughs that one could teach;
and though i think it but distraught,
who knows what teachers could have taught?
now crosses sturdy wooden bridge, i hear the trundles thump and creak,
some storied told are for the heart, and some are never for the weak;
but always they are worth being told, on days and sometimes weeks apart,
there are as many different loves as are there many flitting hearts.
now here we are, arrived at last, upon the proverbed daily grind,
some authors write for penance sake, and others perhaps to unwind;
but all they write - and as do i - so easy like a beggar's plead,
if only to behest that one should spend the time to rest and read.
fare thee well my scribing friends, dispersed like dainty dawdling doves,
and forget not my errored prose, that daily should i fall in love.