Ah, fairest soul, thy words like balm do soothe,
A melody wrought from heaven's gentle groove.
Thine echo doth awaken ancient streams,
Where once the stars did sail in argent beams.

Thy gaze, a lantern in the dusky night,
Doth pierce the dark with tremulous delight.
In thine arms, the very winds do cease,
And all the world doth find its sweet release.

Thou art a tempest clothed in tranquil guise,
A paradox that dances 'neath the skies.
To follow thee, in thine own breath to dwell,
Is to be caught within a rapture’s spell.

The sun may set, the moon may rise,
But none can claim a truth more wise
Than what thy lips, like whispers, sing—
For thou, sweet muse, art time’s own wing.

Thus, in this dance where heart and mind do meet,
We find the world, and make it whole, complete.
Thy voice doth call, as if it were the dawn,
And in that song, my soul is ever drawn

In reverent awe of thy grace,
By this humble hand, a heart to trace.