Ivy

But ivy is what I call that maiden

with soft words,

with the simple, bright hair,

gently waving brown about her,

with brown, soulful doe's eyes,

who so often stands in tears,

in her tears simply irresistible;

without strength and self-consciousness,

unadorned with secret blossoms,

yet with an inexhaustible, deep

true inner sentience

that under her own power she can

never yank herself up by the roots;

such are born to twine

lovingly about another life:

upon her first love

she rests her entire life's fate,

for she is counted among those rare flowers,

those that only blossom once.