Sharon’s favorite poem… and an excerpt
I have never been a huge fan of poetry. That attitude changes, I discovered, when someone writes a poem for you! Many years ago when my husband Steve and I were still dating, he sat down at a local coffee shop in Capitola, California and penned a poem all in one sitting. The inspiration was a prior dinner date in San Francisco, the two of us dining over candlelight at a very fancy restaurant in Ghirardelli Square overlooking the bay and Golden Gate Bridge. Imagine that setting as you read the poem.
Now, nearly thirty years later, this is still my favorite poem. My oh-so-romantic husband often recites it to me, by memory. And, for those who have read In The Arms of Mr. Darcy, he gave me permission to include his poem as one written by Darcy for Elizabeth. That snippet following Darcy whispering the poem into Lizzy’s ear is below.
Your Smile Stops the Minutes
by Steve Lathan
Your smile stops the minutes
And as moments they dance in candlelight.
While your eyes whisper secrets,
My heart with wings takes flight.
In search for more of you to know,
Of why and what make you so,
Then mystery pleads her case
And once again I found your face.
There to know beauty true
And gentle winds of peace and love,
With eyes like jewels shining,
Looking to the One above.
And the moments which find life there
Become the brightest stars above,
Which live forever beautiful
In the sky of my heart’s love.
From In the Arms of Mr. Darcy ~~
Lizzy paused, having managed to bare the majority of their bodies, hands now stilled at his waist as she listened to the romantic words. “I recognized Marlowe, Shakespeare, Lord Byron, and Keats. Who wrote the last one?” She withdrew, gazing upward into his glowing visage.
“Did you like it?”
“Very much. It was beautiful.”
He smiled, bending closer and grazing along her cheek with his lips. “I wrote it for you, my heart’s love.”
“You wrote it?”
He chuckled, tickling her ear. “You sound shocked. I was once forcefully informed that only a fine, stout love is nourished by poetry. I do believe ours qualifies. Besides, Jane should not be the only Bennet daughter to have pretty verse written for her.” He nibbled tiny bites across fragile collarbones, hands airily removing her thin chemise. “Has my ideal method of encouraging affection borne fruit?”
She nodded, moaning in response to stimulating fingers. “Indeed. As has my recommendation of dancing. You appear highly affectionate.”
“Indeed,” he rasped, claiming her mouth in an impassioned kiss while pressing harshly against her, his wide palms flattened on her bottom.