I know her voice, hearing the velvet strain,
She rides on the shoulders of love and pain,
And rises as a masthead on the bow,
The ocean spray, cool, on her sweating brow,
When all the labor that her musing took,
Her passion poured into each little book,
Immortal words, strung by a shaky hand,
She climbs upon a pedestal to stand.
A child going ‘round in adult shoes,
Playing games, a convincing little ruse,
She knows by heart, and, knew it all along.
She is tired of entertaining the throng,
And runs back to her solace in bare feet,
Escaping to the lake of her retreat,
Giggling, as she swims there all alone,
Where, laying lightly, rests the heavy stone.
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