SHE sails in grace, like one in love
with love itself and all that’s lush;
and when the wingéd sprites above
unloose her from the morning's blush,
she descends like the milk-white dove
with the notes of a singing thrush.
With golden locks, as fair from fair,
and liquid, limpid eyes most blue,
none is like her or can compare
to her beauty and lovely hue
that heal the injured souls that dare
come to her for her magic dew.
As cloud and rain Nymph and a muse
with the profound crest of a saint,
(which no man can therefore refuse
or with mean words tarnish or taint)
then let all Creatures freely choose
to honor her without constraint.