Forty-seven has a flair for dreaming,
Opening her heart to what might be,
Restoring to delight the empty moment,
Testing the terrain of mystery.
Yet there is much in life beyond redeeming.
Still, for dreamers all, the world is teeming,
Exuberant with excess ecstasy,
Veiled though it be by tearful torment,
Ever fit for fruitful fantasy.
Nor does one glimmer, but the whole is gleaming.