In The Library

As she sat facing me the other day Reading a book, while I was writing verses, Or rather trying to, for I could not Detach my gaze from her bewitching visage, Nor could my mind in rhythmic furrows flow, Pursuing thoughts to her all unrelated, When like the heaving billows that are yielding To the attracting powers of the moon, My every thought by her has been attracted. I thus bethought me: "Wherefore write I poems, When here, before me, breathes a living poem, Compared to whom, all poems are as dust Besides a sweetly smelling, blooming flower." So I lay down my pen and gazed at her.