When children raved in warrior’s paint
and danced, like David, sans restraint
– when poets sailed from distant shores
– when lambs lay down to lions’ roars
– when old wounds healed and were no more
– when sinners turned at once to saints,
and hearts grew strong by growing faint
– in some miracle hour when the moon was mad,
hence insane men were growing sane –
I saw a sight sublime, a dream had:
A fairy queen danced forth cross a stormy plain
upon a single subtle drop of summer rain,
and stood before me with a curtsy and a smile.
Her form was beauty flawless: beauty without guile.
She stood there like a gift, defying explanation.
Her skin was lily like, and dyed with pink carnations.
Her eyes were colored oceans with depths for miles, and miles:
eyes soft kissed by gentle wind, misty, mysteriously mild.
With delight I gazed on she, like some astonished child;
with curiosity she answered, at first and for awhile:
as if I were a creature, new, and strange, and wild;
as if I were a riddle sent forth to beguile.
Midst curious conjecture, she made her decision:
at last, her face flushed red with recognition;
she tossed her hair in a manner kind and coy –
“If I am a girl,” she said with startled joy,
and held me like a vision,
“then you must be a boy.”