A fair lady from my sweet
And slightly childish dreams,
Upon smartening herself up
Near a window,
Looks out through it to feel sad
In the dying sunset.
In the shade of the glossy willows,
Just outside her window,
She fears the wind might arise
And tousle her lofty hairstyle.
Before she speaks, she reddens,
Like a cherry ripe-broken,
Like an ice statue, molten;
But in a moment she moves her lips—
A string of notes—scented,
Tremulous and golden—busts out
To fill up the air with fragrance.
When she turns sideways
Her beauty may be a subject
Of the following verbal painting:
Sideways is inclining,
Her jade hair-pin is declining;
The dark arc of her brows curves,
Like the new moon reclining and
Into her velvet temples resigning.
When she walks, her grace
May be depicted in the following
Parlance of delight:
She moves her steps, cunning
And pretty; her soft skin sounds,
Like a babyish ditty;
So gracefully tender
And so helplessly immature,
Like a weeping willow’s long twigs
Before her twisting in a soft
And gentle breeze giddying.
Lightly dipping her gauzy scarf,
The breeze entwines her slender waist
With its caressing touch. . .
Still, reddened and naked
She shows herself
When she’s sure of being alone,
In solitude,
Soaring in mid air and beyond
The fathomless azure of eternity.
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Ron