Courtly love (written upon return)

Sir Smokealot, the foreign kind,
your body language reaches me not.

O Sir, I feel I owe a lot
to the patience of your eyes.

You look at me with heaven's gaze,
infinity of stars and shapes.

Your soul I know, the rest I won't
if one I know then that I don't.

With you I'll bear up any hill
insomniac squire of good will.

A curious guide, undestined yet,
no contract yet, just all implied.

O Sir, of any type a guide
would probably mislead you.

O Sir, your armour is my pride,
I'll not knowingly deceive you.

Adventure's bride with you nearby,
I'll gaze the orbs until goodbye.