She walks in beauty, so we've heard.
But more, she dances light on stinging winds
Of winter gray.
To map the motion of her step
Would be to know her heart.
But I, oh fortunes fool,
Whose mind is made of basest parts,
Cannot but see her gracious path,
And smell her scent, like sweet spring rain.
But what of life, of love, of trust?
To be nearby makes mind rejoice
And soul sing high to match her pitch.
To revel in her scented wake,
All could be lost or gained in a day,
And pass me by as a fleeting bird.
But now she comes, so light of step.
And I, again, of baser parts,
Do crouch and cringe, my sould resides,
And I resign to fade.
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