Musing

When the words are out of reach
and you gaze upon her face
in the hope that parts of speech
will somehow chance to capture
the strange angelic grace
which sweeps your brain to rapture...

Then you're dreaming, silly boy -
for words may catch your feeling
but that distillate of joy,
which is bottled in her self
and leaves you simply reeling
isn't on the reference shelf.

Yeats wrote about Maud Gonne,
and we read today and sigh,
for his words go on and on
and we melt within his heart,
but what the girl was like -
why, he barely makes a start!