Easy it might well seem,
Cheap, fake, and phony even,
To call you, woman,
The prettiest thing alive,
Pristine jewel of Creation,
My Sun, my Moon, my Stars.
You will say I sin of flattery
And that I abuse metaphor,
Spreading truth ever-so thin,
And deceiving, above all,
My all-unknowing soul.
How dare you accuse me thus?
For drawing truth from Creation's well
When my own words have proved lacking?
For all praise I say
I both see and believe,
And before my eyes
You seem not too different
From the Sun's golden warmth,
And the Moon's silver calm;
Your eyes seem then stars,
Or stars your eyes,
I am yet not sure.
And all these things are
Ever-bright, ever-kind,
As if they were fashioned, too,
From God's Idea of You.