This lyric poeticizes about my feminine ideal, who to me exists as an abstract idea only.
|I love her clear, azure-blue eyes
and her golden tresses;
wise, and with love that never dies
or wavers, she blesses.
Behind those intelligent eyes,
she ponders and listens;
as I surmise, she bears the ties
of saintliness that glisten.
With yellow tresses dressed in waves,
spooled, and weaved in sage;
she braves the loathing that enslaves,
assuaging enmity's rage.
Sage, wise, and just, she's elegant,
lovely, and compassionate;
and eschews man's Pride, the giant
of sins that's intemperate.
Alas! Her existence's undone,
and more concept than real:—
that she's fiction I sadly bemoan,
for she's "la femme idéale."