On, St. Valentine

A jar of wishes by the well of saints.
Ley lines are songlines for elvish matter.
O aye! the stuff of dreams, my Love, scatter
these handfuls of magic beans, your nymphish
feints in sylphid glades enrapture. The waters
of Paradise were passion-molten,
the best love’s always stolen,
from Time, the master thief, the grinning
bringer of disaster.
Now days are smoke
and candles’ ends, would I as I had begun:
to love you best and always, in despite
of toad rain falling upon the lean kine,
the comet’s red lesion in the night.