It’s of a little wonder, what she is
An earthen nymph, or one with the winds
For she dances like the daughter of the air
Yet blooms in spring, a fine April day

Of her two brows, so different in sight
One taut with pride, one melancholy of delights
For speaks both, languages of love and thought
Yet her jarring gaze, never stops

In winters she’s wear a brooch of gold
Set into it an old amber stone
She talks in melodies and poems old
And speaks in tongues dead and gone

In Latin she curses, the languages of gods
Her mirth covered in a veil of rose
In peony pink, she threads the countryside
Sousing in dew kissed emerald, and curses old

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