In Foreign Hands

In foreign hands, I could not be honeycomb, not when you is my harbour and my bee glade home. In alien arms, death might as well be mine because you are my breath, my sweet Columbine. No other garden has such vistas I want to see, And no matter the season, I guarantee- Your love will have a never-ending chorus nevermore porous or beauteous or gorgeous. Then the singing here and now all can perceive Oh, lord, let her not be false or me naïve. Love - love like this is only mortal bliss but I'd give up paradise for just one more kiss. I'd shear all the clouds from these heavens again to peer and shiver than live forever malcontent. I'd live in danger like the woodland red roe deer in the firing line, then live and see you disappear. ~ Oh, I'll weed out some purple mountain heathers And marry her in a church someplace in Cheshire.