I saw fair maidens in my dream,
That there sate in line like pilgrims of Canterbury.
They wove wreaths fresh and fair as they were ,
Fairer than when day departs turning the horizon red.
As yonder i gazed in wonder there among-st them stood one that stole my eye,
She wove quicker and in perfection sang a song soft.
Her lips parted in laziness as if they had a life of their own,
Her wreath shone brighter as if she plucked flowers from Eden ,
Immaculé as if it resembled not a death.
She wove like she knew no worry nor death,
The wind gently carrying her linen gown that on her gently flowed.
Would you look at her work i pray,
Her hands caressing twigs and petals that she in perfection weaved.
God bless her hands i pray,
And her lips that she with sings so sweet.
I pray that of her i dream again.