SHE beams with joy, like one in love
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with love itself and all that’s lush;
and when the Grecian gods above
unloose her from the morning's blush,
she descends like the gentle dove
with the notes of a crooning thrush.
With gilded locks, like flax most fair,
and liquid, limpid eyes so blue,
none is like her or can compare
to her likeness and blazing hue
which give warmth to the meek who dare
beseech her for her balmy dew.
Thus foreordained as mythic Muse
to be revered as though a saint
which no man can therefore refuse
or with vile words destroy or taint,
so let all creatures freely choose
to worship her without constraint.
"To have the soul of a poet is to feel with the mind, and to think with the heart."