Her voice glows brightly as her hair
Her voice glows brightly as her hair:
Each has a rose-gold hue.
But how could mortal eyes compare
The beauty of the two?
(Or hope to see a thing as fair
As all her colours true?)
The voice is magic, madd'ning, rare;
She offers it to few.
She guards it with such precious care
And keeps it from our view.
(Who must I be that I should dare
To listen as I do?)
The head is crowned with fire's glare;
It burns each day anew.
Now I am caught within her snare--
It shall consume me, too.
(Alas! I can do naught but stare
And all my weakness rue!)
Hardly a bastion of twenty-first-century poetry, I am, but the poem has a strange power for me. Perhaps because it was written about her. I wrote this verse in a dream and it intruded upon my waking life, and now I am left to ponder the true meaning of the words.
This is, I suppose, far easier to bear than the weight of all that I have to ponder at present.