La Femme Ideale

I love her limpid, clear blue-eyes and her long, yellow tresses; wise, and with grace that never dies or wavers, she blesses. Behind those intelligent eyes, she ponders, thinks, and listens; as I surmise, she feels the rise of saintliness that christens. With golden tresses dressed in waves, spooled, and weaved in sage; she braves the loathing that enslaves, assuaging enmity's rage. Shrewd, wise, and just, she's tolerant, patient, kind, and compassionate; and eschews man's Pride, the giant of deadly sins that's intemperate. But her existence's all but undone, for she's more abstract than real:— that she's only fiction I bemoan, for she's “la femme idéale.”