MILK MAID ATOP A HILL
As the rivulet danced down the reflective hills,
And soft breeze blew quietly through the love-lorn trees,
She bounded up the hill
A million prayers aching on her half-open mouth,
Her lips drenched in songs dropping from clouds,
A million dreams danced across her somnolent eyes,
Dreams that carry memories from far-off landscapes,
Mists of melodies round her waist weave a wreath.
She is the valley’s own daughter, reared on autumn’s early fruit,
Ripe, succulent, like her.
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