Easy it might well seem
Cheap, fake, and phony even
To call you, woman,
The prettiest thing alive,
Pristine jewel of Creation,
My Sun, Moon, and Stars.
You will say I sin of flattery
and that I abuse metaphor
Spreading truth ever-so thin
And deceiving, above all
My own, poor, unknowing soul.
How dare you, I say, accuse me thus?
For drawing truth from Creation's well
When my own words have proved lacking?
For all I may 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 the 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.