Young Girl

Seeing the white tower of her throat

Where songs might spiral and might spill,

Or ripple smoothly out and float

Like water blowing down a hill;

Seeing her arms, the way she stands

So scornfully with hands on hips,

As though she would survey the lands

She fashioned with her fingertips;

Seeing her standing poised and still,

She is articulate as the spring:

She makes the lands she does not till,

The songs she cannot sing.

BRIDE