"A Sonnet Inviolable"

For to be love's young passion, as I be yours
Nascent bud blossom hangs upon Spring tree:
Waiting, O! waiting for cruel season to mature.
Guarded bloom cups kiss 'twixt thee and me
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st across ocean
Touching goaded hour and time of my desire?
Prophetic souls collapse in realms of devotion
Amidst divine prayers of this ecclesiastical fire;
'Tis her unfamiliar hymns that hush the night
Jewelled notes slip from dormant tongue in love,
Crowning thy sensitive crown in bonded plight
As Beauty's purpose fits thy spirit like a glove.
A glove indeed to one hand doth belong
Once touched love bursts forward within four palms.

`T. Imaan Tretchicovmanicova