I sit and marvel at my lady fair,
Who laughs and loiters by the sliver line
That gathers lilies for the placid shrine,
In which she dips her languid fingers bare.
Her limbs alight when breezes stir the air,
And I no longer sit, but intertwine
My arms with hers—a dancer so divine
Terpsichore herself could not compare.
I cannot understand why others miss
The beauty hiding in her leaf and bough
That cradles tiny infants in their sleep.
No complaint when stripped by winter’s kiss
She offers. So I sit and wonder now,
What ghastly thing could make the willow weep.