Her soul, which once illuminated, grows
Uneasy, perplexing and recluse,
And creeps into such quiet slumbering muse
That what we often see she does not know,
But thinks we travel lightly not to plow
Her troubled need for love-enabled clues.
We tell her that Life's Providence may choose
To break her brittle heart with harmful vows --
\For what she earns is not all Heaven-sent
And future days are not mapped out by choice.
Her wandering paths that enemies present
Soon just as well display her happiest joys.
So growing still, but not by labor spent,
Her soul demeans its price, so thus, its voice.
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