A lonely solitary sound,
With voice still young and yet profound,
Floats light across a mountain stream:
Her song an all-consuming dream.
No Nightingale has pined as sweet
Nor laid such beauty at my feet.
Such plaintive strains pledge purity
Like rapture captures symphony.
No springtime trill of Whippoorwill
Could touch so much as it does still
Or shine a brighter healing light
To dare the dark to flee the night.
No Sirens of exotic seas
Heard off the Southern Hebrides
Could lift so high my troubled soul
Or fill so full to joyous whole.
Her Highland Gaelic, lost to me,
With perfect pitch and melody.
Yet language lost does not affect
My love for highland dialect,
As now across the crystal flow
A voice now flesh stands all aglow.
She sees I stand a soul amiss
And throws me one kind blissful kiss.
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