Mother, mother, who told us
all that glisters is not gold?

Have they not seen where I
gently opening my clear-skied eyes,
bluebirds flying amid pearl-like cloud;
sunlit locks draping over my fair, slender waist;
snow-white legs dangling from:
pretty golden tulip –

bloomed from the loving kiss of your sanguine lips?

You chooseth it,
you gained what you desired.

“Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart, or in the head?”

From the reflection I see my singing self:
narcissus beauty –
nightingale voice –
oh ripples of water
splashes like meteors against Milky Way oars –
mirrors of truth.

Not silver, not lead,
can be my boat
for never so rich a gem
could be set in worse than gold!

Mother, mother, why tell
all that glisters is not gold?*