Sonnet 24: No Winters Storm, Or Tempests Vile Power

No winters storm, or tempests vile power Can wrest my love for thee from my bosom Thou art dearest my love’s sweetest flower That doth form our gardens greatest blossom. Thou art summers sweet honey to my lips Whenever I kiss thee my heart skips a beat When I stand with my hands on those firm hips, Or sleeping with thee under our beds sheet. But will Love’s passion last the test of time Or Love’s ardour’s cool like the summer’s rain? Love has to be worked to keep it in its prime Or two hearts may be the subject of pain. Love is a flower that must be tended, This beauty is what nature intended.