Fifty-Nine

Fifty-nine takes pleasure in her songs,
In which she finds a mirror for her grace.
For her the morning gathers in the mourning,
Tucking it away where it belongs
Yet making sure it has sufficient space.

Nor does she give regret the pride of place,
Instead preferring tuning forks to tongs,
Needing but the sweetness of her singing,
Elegant and pure, to light her face.