Splendid leaves, all a swirl, spindly, wheeling, driving, curl,
Amid the woods, the leaves unfurl; there stands a wild, happy girl.

No ornament, goal, or mere décor; undomesticated; poor,
Weapons wet with demon gore, stirring, bracing, running, roar.

Sweet, and kind, her sharpened mind; on shelves of books her eyes have dined,
Soothing anger, knots unwind; stinging, stabbing heart resigned.

Born away, aloft, on high; suds and laughs, the fiddler’s sigh,
What’s that, my dear? Of course, I’ll buy; or bake me in a mincemeat pie.

Night and chill, the moon’s dark air, a wind that draws her close ~ I stare,
The woman sighs away our care; upon her lips mine own then dare.

Thou art, faire maid, misplacing said gratitude ~

for it is we, thine audience, enriched by thine attitude ~

We must thank thee, for services rendered ~

more beautiful currency, hast ne'er been tendered.