But she is happiest alone. She is happiest alone.

Is she happy? For portions of every day, she is happy.

She's private to herself and best of knowledge
Whom she'll make so happy as to sigh for.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.
The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd
That lie upon her charmed heart
She sleeps: on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.

Her eyes, for country eyes, are really fine.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie!
Now she's at rest, and so am I.

With the coffee in front of her, she closed her eyes, and inhaled deeply. It was her moment of happiness.

And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair, With gold in her garment glittering, And she combs her golden hair.

She is alone.
And oh
how brilliantly she shines.

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
“Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over”.
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone

Every particle of dust on a patch of earth
Was a sun-cheek or brow of the morning star;
Shake the dust off your sleeve carefully — That too was a delicate, fair face.

Each strand of her hair
Is really insect eyes
And each hole in her tongue
Is always occupied
By the milk of the sun

Elle a d'assez beaux yeux
Pour des yeux de province.