A morning shore, my lover's eyes
Drift into the morning skies,
And honey clouds above his face
Swirl ever round with wild grace.
A gentle touch upon his hand
Reveals the treasures in his sand.
Thus beaming with a wond'rous glow,
Is the gorgeous smile I know.

Lest his surf and sea and sky
Be lost in the ebbing tide,
He built a fortress strong as stone,
The outer walls of his bone.
(Unless there was some higher art
That formed his body and his heart--
God's handiwork at its best
For his gentle soul to rest).

Of handiwork, the best creation:
His hands at work! My adoration
Is great for those, which enduring
Winter snow and summer pouring,
Were weathered like white oakwood.
And while his handsome hands could
Wrestle (and so hard they toiled!),
Their touch never could be spoiled.

Their touch speaks of so much more
Than all the waves that hug the shore,
Than all the winding prints of feet,
Than all the gentle winds that greet
The sunshine caught among the boughs,
Than all the swirling sand in rows,
Than all the shells the bright beach wore--
Their touch speaks of so much more.

My lover's glance, and all his looks,
Are worthy of a hundred books,
Yet even such could not convey
How precious they are. Though I may
Illustrate something somewhat near,
A shadow is barely right or clear.
But one thing I see clearly:
We're "rab ne bana Di jodi."