A Fantasy - By Sara Teasdale

Her voice is like clear water
 That drips upon a stone
In forests far and silent
 Where Quiet plays alone.

Her thoughts are like the lotus
 Abloom by sacred streams
Beneath the temple arches
 Where Quiet sits and dreams.

Her kisses are the roses
 That glow while dusk is deep
In Persian garden closes
 Where Quiet falls asleep.