She, elsewhere in the shade of an English rose, further goes way yonder to a herb estate. There's a melancholy within the fiddle, glide at the dawn—fall in a heap. Her feet hurdle the honorable longitude, in the night's lilt and serene poetry. Hitherto, she draws the silhouette of a jasmine, bequeathed by the Almighty's lavish on her. Let her life be your art. From grease paints on hieratic canvas, she and her feather in one's cap will be the never-ending tale. Euphoria looks apt on her, the temporary art phrase whose twinkle-toed on. A new journey comes forth on her, lettered to dewfall. Whoop out the wind-puffy, set it aside with an old humpy and oak buds. She perched there pleasantly, with the mild nightingale’s hum. From murals, symphonies and monuments; been numb except for the crescent moon to rise. Here's a glimpse of her once-living pretty soul. As lilebuds plunge off from the athwart field, she’s beaming roseate stellar in her gorgeous aptitude. Among-other-things in this world, aling with her poems. ⠀⠀