What symphony, what grace of form
True beauty will too soon be gone…
The perfumer’s hand would carefully blend
The perfect harmony of your scent.
With a maestro’s skill you were conceived
Whose blossom would have Monet pleased.
With your air, your presence of command
The very essence of romance…
Choice words that never could portray
The beauty, that was yours, that day.
Futile – too vaunting in their praise
Unworthy of such simple grace…