In an entire capital, she is the only lady,
Who speaks like an adult woman.
To festoon her beauties-rose
And to decorate her ocean eyes,
Means to cultivate the saffron gossamers
In the windy nights.
It’s easy to overpower and yoke
By bucketing the fabric flowers.
But how shall I pile her soft looks,
And store her saffron smile,
Which blooms quarterly in a decade?
Like a narcissus, away from the view
Of the world, alone and mysterious.
Like mermaids’ prelude strikes by chance
To the ears closed, to an eye folded,
To the tongue which shivers to structure
The jigsaw phones of the creature afterwards.