by Robert Louis Arehart
Willow-slender, lithe and lovely,
fair as June-morn's waking day.
Young as dew-drops, old as mountains,
fresh of scent, as new-mown hay.
Lovely creature, God's own molding.
Peerless figure, lost love's dream.
Blithe and carefree, filled with spirit,
captured my heart with sunshine's gleam.
How may one, so young and glorious
smile a smile so pure and rare
that all at once can be victorious
in ways that Eve would hardly dare?
Innocently filled with knowledge,
wise beyond ten thousand years.
A sprightly creature made to thrill me...
Flails and scorns me with her tears.