Greater than goodness, those granted glory
of beauty beyond mere fairness of form.
So shall I speak of she like the moonlight --
as pale as the ash, as pale as the moon.
Ship-giver is she, a deep minded seeress,
the Lady of Cats, her hair gold as corn.
The poppy is placed by her feet, pure flowers,
But bested by far its beauty by hers.
On fist the falcon, fair as the frost is,
Ice by a diamond, its beauty is dimmed.
Hers is the herb-craft, knows her hands healing.
Swift fly her fingers on bronze strings' bright songs:
High over harpstrings sounds out her singing.
Fair are all these, still she is more fair.

Copyright © 1984 C.L.Ward/Gunnora Hallakarva