Shall I name her yet undone;
she, but a world within herself,
so permeable in fragrant form,
tho’ unyielding to staid hands.
How like a rose, she may wither,
yet e’er be soft, and e’er sweeter
than the breath of morning dew,
or with gossamer breeze, she falls.
No fragility of hands e’er hold her;
yet she submits to my ardent gaze,
as starlight that flickers and dims,
if not fixed in the memory of sky.
In moonlight, her form may rage,
as with sun, she recoils to shadow;
hands capture what eyes cannot see,
and words play sweetly to the ear.
But, she is a child of nature, borne,
tho’ unwittingly to be complacent;
for, in my eyes, she is a tempest,
tho’ her heart clings to timid waters.