“Write happy,” came the command,
A petal laden reprimand
From the maiden in the hills.
So much to cherish, so little to rue,
Why concentrate on bygone ills?Stick your face into the breeze,
Be whimsical, smile with ease,
Sing with mirth and jubilation.
Walk in a garden, smell a rose,
Dream of poetry, live in prose,
Revel in all of creation.”
“Nay,” said I, “that I cannot be
The administerer of minstrelsy
Is plain even at the summit of joy.
For I have seen only too often,
When one permits oneself to soften,
Destiny hatches a malicious ploy
The flower picked, reveals its thorn,
The lover’s sympathies turn to scorn,
The garden, once blooming, wilts away.
Creation reveals its myriad flaws,
Art is prostituted to base applause,
The world I am left to view is grey.
So, maiden, if that be all you ask,
I regretfully am not up to the task
Of writing mirthful poetry.
I am, however, immensely glad,
That every conversation we have ever had
Has inspired some poetry in me.
Take this as my meagre offer,
To a princess from a pauper,
And in taking it, honor me.
I may not write poems of laughter,
But for this life and ever after,
I vow to always honor thee.”