by Brian G. Daigle

The form of love in feminine frame
Beheld and given a glorious name. 
My love she beckons, her love she gives, 
My love she ignites, invigorates, and tames. 

The sight of you in silhoutte lines,
A grace to eyes and heart and man's mind. 
My gaze she holds,
My heart she molds,
Our love she informs, enfolds, and entwines.

by Brian G. Daigle

If morning mercies had a woman's smile, it would be yours. 
If morning dew gave a woman's kiss, it would be yours. 
If Dawn's rose finger were on a woman's hands, they would be yours. 
If the daybreak's wonder spoke a woman's voice, it would be yours. 
If ambition and passion could awaken with a breath, it would be yours. 
If the joy of a single day could stand on two legs, it would be you. 

by Brian G. Daigle

What are bright? Sunrises and smiles.
What are busy? Bees and ant piles.
What are happy? Children and flowers.
What are gifts? Friends and hours.

by Brian G. Daigle

There sits a light upon a hill which shines from east to west.
It wasn't there more recently, but now it gives its best.
It shines upon the old and new, it pours forth heat and light.
It brings what's hidden to my eyes; it gives a hopeful sight.

A companion for a traveling soul, and feet that wish for home,
A beacon from some peaceful town, with the likeness of my Rome,
This light inflamed by greater Light, was made apart from me,
And if I covered heart or face, a fool I'd prove to be.

I cannot help, though lights I've known, to see the value here,
To pause my tracks and gaze up toward, until my feet draw near.
But burdens rest on traveled backs, and fires made ash before.
And yet the pureness of Lucy's heart does heal and does restore.

​I will love this light so long as it's here and brightens all I see.
I will wait upon that greater Light to know if this light is for me.
And yet whatever comes beyond, if this light passes sure,
I'll wish each light in front of me to have a love so pure.

by Brian G. Daigle

Angelic grace with Eve's own form,
A message come down to earth,
A word of hope to end a storm,
Transcending for love's new birth.

The fullness of friendship never so clear
And never have graces so spread 
Than in her eyes and from her lips
And flowing like gold from her head. 

The purest of joys I find within 
And a treasury far beyond this.
Home in a face, a touch, a grin,
And light from the gift of a kiss. 

Her nearness a honey, a rose, a river. 
Her presence a sweetness, a beauty, a guide. 
If ever Love's hand did mercy deliver
It's surely each time she's here by my side. 

Mercy delivered and always on time,
Never to tarry or dampen its voice.
If ever Love's hand did with flesh make a rhyme,
It's verses are you. Your virtues, Love's choice.

Let Solomon or Coesus bring forth greater goods 
Than what mercy has here delivered. 
No storehouse contains nor palace could hold
Your beauty, a liberation and tether. 

by Brian G. Daigle

Present appearing in beauty's form 
Blanketed over life's close storms. 

Present but no shadow or shade,
With sun above to guide what's been made.

A closeness wished, and vulnerable songs, 
Though previous clouds have drenched with deep wrongs. 

Present indeed, and courage for here,
The courage for now, for love to appear. 

More stories to tell, more stories to make,
With paths now merged, more pathways to take. 

But a present will be when her presence is near, 
And with every new present, new joys to see clear. 

by Brian G. Daigle, modeled after Rudyard Kipling’s “If—”
 
If you can guard your heart when all about you
              Are compromising theirs, blaming woes on you,
If you can honor yourself when all dishonor you,
              But be merciful with their dishonoring too;
If you can labor and not grow resentful in laboring,
              Or being gossiped about, don’t trade in lies told,
Or being derided, derision not harboring,
              And yet don’t dress too haughty, nor speak too bold:
 
If you can feel—and not make feelings your master;
              If you can direct—and not make directing your worth;
If you can host life’s Lents and Easters
              And to each in their seasons labor unto birth;
If you can see yourself in any one mirror
              Warped by Folly to entrap damsels and muggins,
Or see the world you’ve built, shattered,
              And with the sun arise with blistered hands.
 
If you can paint one picture of all your toil
              And sell each drop at public auction,
And watch it leave priced far less valuable,
              And never sigh a huff at hearts so misshapen;
If you can coerce your tendon and joint and heart
              To wash the feet of every weary soul,
And so honor the lesser when nothing more can you impart,
              Except breath which livens them with “Behold!”
 
If when you wrangle with children and time, maintain your grace,
              Or frolic and feast with Princes and wine—nor lose Prudence’s guard.
If neither strangers nor family can derail your pace,
              If every woman knows your praise, but none be vanguard;
If in an hour you build more than break,
              And at every turn and juncture, rise more than you falter,
Home will be made everywhere you give more than you take,
              And—the Beauty therein—you will be a Woman, my daughter! 

by Brian G. Daigle

From sideways winds a fragrant deep 
Across my face does slide. 
If memory could paint its strokes 
There would be not a drop to hide. 

But how I know this odorous joy 
I have but the faintest clue.
It is a beauty I have known before, 
A love I see in you. 

Fragrant deep from deeper streams 
Flow forth to cross this window. 
So must be near, so very near,
A flower which gives this bellow. 

Tis but a flower, or garden full, 
from whence such fragrance streams,
And what a fool I'd prove to be 
If I but looked away from what seems. 

What seems to be the most glorious flower, 
And yet all I have is a scent, 
But of deeper things this fragrance speaks,
And that search demands my ascent. 

by Brian G. Daigle 
​
Through darkened sod 
The bud bursts forth. 
In shadowed soil 
The roots grow deep. 

There was no light 
Where seed first broke. 
But holy water 
Needs no help. 

Dormant though 
In full solitude,
Through seminal strength 
The seed's faith presses on. 

It could not know 
That all about,
Above this dampened,
Blackened ground,

There is a field 
Of flowers bright 
Whose own beginning 
Was the same. 

And now the bud 
Has ascended upward,
We await the bloom 
Of deeper love. 

by Brian G. Daigle 
​
I saw her there on canvas stretched 
With strokes and pigments ever etched. 

I beheld her once on mountain peak,
Those Sawtooths reaching heaven's seat. 

I felt her dimly by the light 
That love burns when two loves unite. 

I stood within her cathedral walls
Where bread rebuilds and rebels fall.

I feared her still with raging waves
Which crashed upon far Roach's cove.

I viewed her in that father's care
When War did bind and fear ensnared. 

I kissed her, never calm nor tame,
Her power tempered not by name.  

I held her in my child's delight 
When fatherly affection did ignite.

I cried for her when broken hearts 
Still loved and shared what love imparts. 

I heard her hum from cello's deep,
From violin strings my soul did leap. 

I read her once in Homer's verse,
And by Chesterton's pen my faith she nursed. 

I counted her deep in Augustine's stream, 
When mercy crept like ivy green. 

I watched her born, I knew it true
Where daughter vacated mother's womb.

I smelled and tasted her at dusk
When mother's table I learned to trust.  

I heard her in each story told,
By Payne Street's flames, both young and old. 

I saw her too when rampart men,
First laid their eyes upon Helen. 

But never was she more terribly seen 
Than when divine blood death did ripen.