To mention is to men
A thing forbid by woe,
Though beauty seems to flirt
Like first November snow.

In golden coffins then,
They dye the draggled corse;
Their hearts so often hurt,
For silence they endorse.

The truth about her beam,
A daughter should not know:
That sedentary gleam
Sets hearts and eyes aglow.

More wondrous is the dream
Of special moments shared,
When under every seam
Lies beauty undeclared.

Be hush and still again,
And never let words course;
Keep failing tongues inert,
Lest meanings well turn worse.

And though she stands overt
With grace upon the low,
To mention is to men
A thing forbid by woe.