No such breath would I forsake
toward mere mention of her form;
no matter how soft she appears,
no matter how vast in her warm.
Tho’ infinite is her brand of sky,
no rain of tears e’er wet her mind;
no more does she know of sorrow,
no more than allowed of her kind.
Winsome soul had she been born,
guileless divine of flesh and heart;
by her offering, no wanton has stay,
by her manner, her amourous art.
She is beauty which pleads for me,
her heart and spirit, her very flesh;
so warm to hold, her eyes in gaze,
so lyric in form, melodious caress.
And like proverbial moth to flame,
am I then to her, infinitely drawn;
with her heart, my fray has calm,
with her light, my night has dawn.