She walks as lightly as the fly <br />Skates on the water in July. <br /> <br />To hear her moving petticoat <br />For me is music's highest note. <br /> <br />Stones are not heard, when her feet pass, <br />No more than tumps of moss or grass. <br /> <br />When she sits still, she's like the flower <br />To be a butterfly next hour. <br /> <br />The brook laughs not more sweet, when he <br />Trips over pebbles suddenly. <br />My Love, like him, can whisper low -- <br />When he comes where green cresses grow. <br /> <br />She rises like the lark, that hour <br />He goes halfway to meet a shower. <br /> <br />A fresher drink is in her looks <br />Than Nature gives me, or old books. <br /> <br />When I in my Love's shadow sit, <br />I do not miss the sun one bit. <br /> <br />When she is near, my arms can hold <br />All that's worth having in this world. <br /> <br />And when I know not where she is, <br />Nothing can come but comes amiss.<br /><br />William Henry Davies<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/charms/
