I grieve for the ignorant poetry

I grieve for the ignorant poetry
For they know not what they write
Because if they only see that which I see,
All their daring lines shall be called a spite.

God knows, every word of beauty,
Expresses none but you.
O, is it not insulting, love, that they compare you to a flower?
When even the meekest bud has seen what is true:

“In her presence, do all flowers shy away;
And how, when she walks,
The greenest grass bow and praise;
That even the winds fall silent and listen when she talks.”

And, love, when you blink, as when on our bed you lay,
That’s how the Sun knows
That the night must now be turned to day.

‘How about the beauty of the rose?’ they ask.
“But that’s too poor a cliché.” I say.
Remember, how, a rose, is embarrassed when you hold
Such poor rose – its esteemed beauty drops and fades away.
Decay – decay.
More – I can show; but much – I’d rather leave untold.

Yet, forgive them, my saint,
Because I, too, am as guilty as their lines
For writing too frail a verse.
But how to write?
When even Cupid’s pen will take a thousand times to nurse!

But, this I write to tell
What the best of quills unknowingly hold as true:
That not one can tell, but can only praise
The poorest inch of you.