The oil of my nights, and light of my days,

Wholly have I spent to your single homage on old leaves;

But my tribute goes not past my chest, like obscure schemes of thieves –

As I give my lamp’s oil, and hide under cool shades, to do your praise.

Women, left to themselves, by themselves constitute a religion,

Love is the doctrine, and men are the worshippers devout.

And so have I held you (the gods forgive this lout)

To whom I do the profession of my faith, as my love guides me on.

But how now that my deity requites her votary’s worship,

And speak in a flood of tears of an heavenly love,

And swear of all mortals in the rungs of her love I stand above –

So that she makes my doubtful fears grow in tide by each drop she does weep!

For, Shindara, I reason upon your love’s awkward odds,

And grow wary a trap’s spread before me by the jealous gods!


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By Sydney Chesterfield on June 15, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry, Trends

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