A Lady of Windermere

A warm, crimson sunset
Bathes her porcelain face;
Her white Victorian dress
Has no mark, nor a trace
Of dirt or soot to spoil
Her distinguishing grace.

A perfect, pristine smile
Makes one want some more
Of her sweet company
Which single men adore;
Yet, she remains alone
Beside Windermere’s shore.

What would Wordsworth think
If he stood where I stand?
Would he pour out his heart
As great poets understand?
Could even he succeed
In winning her open hand?

Alas! No amount of words
Can reach into her mind
For, upon closer inspection
You will certainly find
A Lady not of flesh and blood,
But one an Artist designed!

Ah, now it’s all so clear,
This mystery is now explained,
The Lady standing by the lake,
Her beautiful form unstained,
Is a superb stone statue -
Well, would your joy be contained?