My Own

She is more sacred than others
A girl, my sister
She is a wonderful being more rare
More beautiful,
Purer, more perfect
And more delicate than the wildest dreams of any poet
I could never believe her to be
My own
Her beauty is a well, a spring of the purest water-of-life
And to look upon her is to drink, and drink, and drink, and drink again
She is rare,
A perfect, most godly creation
A work of the purest art
A delicate flower that blooms in the liquid light of the very moon
A nature not of this musky world
A personality like that of a biblical maiden
Most gracious and queenly
I find it difficult,
To believer her,
My own