The Forest and the Rose

She is not poetry to me
And yet, nor is she prose;
This girl is something in betwixt
The forest and the rose.

A living work of art, she is
Replete with love and light–
A sight best seen in her dark eyes
Beneath a starry night.

Perhaps she is a symphony
With leitmotif of grace;
The lilting of the flautist’s notes
Adorn her smiling face.

Her beauty is not to be read
But felt and seen and heard;
The loveliest of all God’s works
Cannot be held by word.

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