The twang of a lute

summons all to the maiden

though there are rumors,

suspicions that it is not her words,

nor song, nor beguiling dance

that brings attention to her show

It is the glimmer in her eye,

the rose in her cheek, a finger

free from gold

She denies as quickly

as she captivates, but

her lonesome eye lingers

upon the waning sun–

How much time was spent

picking at her strings?