The Suitor

Who am I, but a fool, to think of you,
me, the last suitor to arrive in spring,
no sense and not the slightest single clue,
not one, on how to find my key, to sing.

Upon a branch I prance, yes, brag my mantle
as you just tend your dress within a smile;
upon the ground I swirl and bump and tangle
while you just sit and read, then, hum a while.

My love, if you bestow on me by grace,
the scale, unveiled, by wich your hart does play,
unfold the score I sense and clearly trace
a tone might grow, that makes you see, my way.

So we might tune for us a chord, a voice,
a well that sparkles of our love; rejoice!