In the [Mist] of This.

How lovely and nimble are thy feet,
- O prince's daughter!
They flash and sparkle and can run more fleet
- Than running water.
On all the mountains there is no gazelle,
- No roe or hind,
Can overtake thee nor can leap as well~
- But lag behind.

Thy joints and thighs are like a supple band
- On which are met
Fair jewels which a cunning Master hand
- Hath fitly set.
In all the palace, search where'er you please,
- In every place.
There's none that walks with such queenly ease,
- Nor with such grace.

-(Cant. 7:1)

________
_{[Hannah Hurnard]}