Say again what joyful words that weave into the air,
And that sing upon the wind as might her flowing hair.
Those words soft, smooth as silk of treasured value,
That ring in ear and mind like a bell of golden hue.

Recite for me the delicate syllables of her name,
And allow my wondered being the title of her fame.
For in such articulated breathes I may say I have found,
An image for closed eyes that holds beauty world renowned.

I see her face amid the nothingness of empty imagination,
And there about her sparks starlight of divine emanation.
Say not that she is a creation alike to a heavenly angel,
For what tragic angel I might touch are only they that fell.

Tell me instead this name I hear and this form I perceived,
Are but preminitions of a mortal flame perfectly conceived.
Tell me this if the world will allow and while time assents,
If not say her name again and add joy among my laments.

Praise the immaculate ones that were yet never again will be,
For they are the hopes of men adrift upon a despondent sea.