She is mid-sentence, her tongue against her teeth, curving around a word lost forever.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words.

A woman's weapon is her tongue.

My whole life long I learn'd to love,
This hour my utmost art I prove.
And speak my passion — — heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!

She’s a mortal danger without knowing it,
Undreamed of in her own dreams exquisite,
A roseleaf ambush where love lurks to seize
The unwary heart. The unwary eye that sees
Her smile sees pearled perfection. She can knit
Grace from a twine of air. The heavens sit
In every gesture. Of divinities, She’s most divine.