Just Another Face in the Choir
She rises to the golden glow
From ev’ry cloud beneath her feet,
And curls her hair in ringlets so,
In waves romantic, loose yet neat.
She pins each blossom into place
To form a halo round her tress,
And adds a paleness to her face,
And dons her fine and pleated dress.
She plucks her harp and tunes its strings,
And warms her voice to sweetermost.
And so, with flexed and polished wings,
She finally rejoins the host.
This poem was written in response to the painting shown above (sorry she’s so small).