Dear 100 Hour Bard,
It’s oft been told,
That bards of old,
Are frequent in their musing,
Of things to do,
With love so true,
And maidens all a woozing.
So tell me please,
Or by degrees,
A tale of those most noble,
Who found in love,
Rank far above,
Some other tales more global.
I know a tale of loss and love
Repeated oft in heav'n above
And twice as oft recalled below
Whence they who listen's eyes aglow
Can scarce but picture scenes so lit
With passion added, bit by bit.
Alas! I could not share it all,
Tho I would love to so enthrall—
A hundredth, thousandth part would take
Far, far too long. And so I make
This sonnet with a single theme:
Each year, to the girl of his dream,
Bard gave a different gift. The first:
A riddle to meet a god acursed
With longing to dance with her beautiful grace.
Next year, for want to see her face,
He gifted her a simple call.
The third gift was a popup card;
The fourth, a letter by the Bard.
At last he traveled many hours
To see her face and give her flowers.
A wondrous year between them passed.
'Twas such a blast, it flew so fast,
And when the next year came along
He sang for her the sweetest song.
But this was soon surpassed again
When he to paper put his pen
And wrote a book, his girl to please.
The eighth gift was a cake of cheese
Made by his hand. The ninth his hand
Did also form—to comfort and
To warm his love, a scarf he knit
The tenth year he refused to quit
His gifts and took her to a dance.
Where she again did him entrance.
With these ten gifts, I fail to speak
Of all his presents, nor her streak
Of awesome gifts, nor gifts to come.
'Tis but a portion of the sum.
But this mere portion far exceeds
The world's most romantic deeds.
-100 Hour Bard