What tender brush was used to shade your throat—
to line each tiny hair with silver light
and trace the pattern of your living skin?
What steady hand could sculpt such perfect bones;
on which is draped with flawless grace a cloak
of supple thread in ivory and blush?
What flower gave its colour to your lips;
what lonely star found romance in your eyes?
Whatever entities have formed you thus,
they’ve done a work miraculous.