Thinking of a pretty damsel,
Cast in the mould of an angel,
May well be the reason
The lowly spirit lives on,
Even in trying times and life’s difficult struggle.
Her smile, a balm for weary souls,
Her voice, a song the heart extols.
In darkest nights, her light remains,
A whispered hope through toil and pains.
When burdens weigh upon the chest,
And dreams seem lost in fate’s cruel jest,
Her presence, distant yet so near,
Becomes the pulse that quells all fear.
For in the thought of love so pure,
The weary find their will endure,
And though the storm may howl and chide,
Hope’s gentle flame still burns inside.