Song of the Artless Ones

We are the artless ones,

Hair braided, eyes blue,

Who live almost hidden from view

In novels barely read.

We walk, arms interlaced,

And the day’s not so pure

As the depths of our thoughts,

And our dreams are azure.

And we run through the fields

And we laugh and we chatter,

From dawn to evening,

We chase butterflies’ shadows:

And shepherdesses’ bonnets

Protect our freshness

And our dresses – so thin –

Are of perfect whiteness.

The Don Juans, the Lotharios,

The Knights all eyes,

Pay their respects to us,

Their greetings and sighs:

In vain though, their grimaces:

They bruise their noses,

On ironic pleats

Of our vanishing dresses:

And our innocence still

Mocks the fantasies

Of those tilters at windmills

Though sometimes we feel

Our hearts beat fiercely

With clandestine dreams,

Knowing we’ll be future

Lovers of libertines.

-o0o-