Across the secluded glen,
There lies a small house
In which there sits a girl,
By the window, her eyes
Drifting with the clouds
And flying with the birds
She does not speak to the
Passing by, nor does she
Answer the friends that call
She sits swollen with sorrow
Upon her stool, made of wood
Crafted from coarse hands
When she looks up, which
Is not often, mind you,
She can see the sun
But only for a glimpse, before
The clouds take it in stride
And she looks once more
At her hands, at her feet
Shoed in white, gloved in black
There, I see her, and sitting on the
Roof of my carriage, eyes aglow
(For I was afraid; she was too
Lovely for me, I know it to be
True) and when I caught her
Topaz gaze, I averted, holding
What I could, where I could
And only when she rose
And when her cheeks rosed
And when she kept the hands
So soft and calloused
And the feet so worn and so
Crafted, and the eyes
That tore the world apart
And knitted the fabric of
Space back together, did I
Dare look up again, for
She had come closer, smiling
Only slightly, but it was enough
For the rest to fall away, and
Me to fall with it, to the ground
Into her arms, my lips resting
Together, as I felt her ear on
My chest, measuring my heart
With a ruler made of platinum
And she looked up at me,
Either with storm or with
Hawk, and she spoke to me
Just a few words; But for me
I just don't know why
I can remember them perfectly
But I can never, never get them right