My well-known dame, silver be thou not,
Possess thee little material wealth,
Except thy capaticy to be 'hot' and also to 'trot'!
My God! I pray always that thee look after thyself
In such dangerous endeavours.
Thou art mostly a girl, this I concede.
And yet thy hands which write such beauty
Don't conform in the normal way, indeed,
They are masculine to an unsettling degree.
'Tis of no import, however:
Not when thy extensive lexicon
Lends itself so graciously to art-
Like describing the lure of, say, a fawn
And the purity of its heart-
Thou wilt use some idiom most deliciously clever.
Sometimes, too, thou ponder'st the mysteries of life.
"Why doth we breathe?", query thee, wide-eyed,
Thou incorporat'st this into all thou write'st,
I'm constantly inspired - take thee it all in stride,
Insightful as ever.
I find myself awed by thy 'maddest of skills'
The way thou weave'st these words so well,
I wonder: how much time have thee to kill?
But I lie not when I say it's swell,
And I hope thou keep'st like this forever.