One can not compare, the beauty in her stare, or when she ponders, deep in wonder, do I look, for God is the penman, and she the book, from a seed planted by nature, and love it's nurture, does she grow, into a woman whose grace glitters like snow, red torches blaze her face, while eyes of night take their place, even more she grows,with each new feature my heart goes, she is a thief that came at the hours past, who stole my heart oh so fast, only enough time to think but one, this beauty has me, she hath won.