Which day it was I remember not,
Nor what month the almanac showed,
Your yellow veil my senses did clot,
On me those eyes a charm bestowed,
Amidst many why yours was the face
On which my sight was transfixed?
The reason for it I couldn’t trace,
The rational layers had all got mixed.
How long had I gazed at the Daffodillic view?
Perhaps nobody had kept count,
Your cheeks as fresh as wintry dew
All paradisaical grandeur did surmount.
An image on paper I marveled at,
Yet lodged it was in my core,
My being said while giving me a pat,
‘She’ is a mirage, chase her no more.