A bloom of quiet purple prose,
Does grow and seem just like a rose.
It speaks of things I don't suppose,
You've heard before. Perhaps you'll see?

The quiet steam that seems to own,
Your crystal cup, vanilla prone,
Does seem to suit your softer tones.
It's warmth will pose a lover's plea.

It sifts towards your lovely face,
And through its sightly wav'ring race,
A joyous transfer built of lace,
Restrains and grants you energy.

The cup, now vacant of its brew,
Is set aside for times anew.
A drink I think belongs to you.
I hope you'll always have your tea.