She speaks of skirts and dresses
And outings by the sea;
She speaks of curls and tresses
And ribbons flowing free.
She speaks of her successes
And all that she could be;
She speaks of nonthelesses
But never speaks of me.
She looks at morning's start of day
And colours in the sky.
She sees the flowers by the way
And graceful birds that fly.
She watches children gay at play,
Amid the hue and cry;
She looks at breezy trees that sway
But never looks at I.
She thinks of odes of poets told
And relishes with glee;
Tales and yarns of sagas old
As classic scripts decree.
She ponders oft of heroes bold,
In awe of them is she;
She thinks of wonders to behold
But never thinks of me.