SHE beams with joy, like one in love
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with love itself and all that’s lush;
and when the mythic Nymphs above
unloose her from the morning's blush,
she descends like the milk-white dove
with the notes of a singing thrush.
With golden locks, as light as air,
and liquid, limpid eyes most blue,
none is like her or can compare
to her beauty and lovely hue
which lift the humble souls that dare
come to her for her balmy dew.
As wind and air Nymph and as muse
with the nimbused crest of a saint
which no man can therefore refuse
or with mean words tarnish or taint,--
so let all Creatures freely choose
to honor her without constraint.
"To have the soul of a poet is to feel with the mind, and to think with the heart."