Lady, belle, beau babe, my muse sublime
Thou art a cavalry of lightning bolts
For whom I surge of passion duly felt
Suffice for paeans sung aloft through time
Could I, the pauper, with a broken pen
Trace thy magnitude, beget fine oils
Weave tapestry of beauty artist wills
And, inspired, paint thee once again
Angel painting my heart in cerise
You art a spirit over moon
Swoops by sun, up to God
At noon a sight on which to swoon