In the country side of Ireland, far out in the hills and highland, there's a house on a mountain, and next to it, is said the crystal fountain. A women lives in a house that where's an ivy green blouse. Her long gone father was said to be from Canaan, the country men call her a more perfect maiden. I have only seen the maiden once.
Her bright, tomato red hair she kept in a ponytail was just as long as the American Delaware. Her skin was pink that looked as if exposed to heated water, I believe it couldn't be any hotter. Her head was small and perfectly round, her large, clear yet black eyes kept any man bound. Her face, so soft to the touch, an addict may result if felt to much. Her hands, small like that of an infant, I'd not judge them even for an instant. Her torso was a most perfect shape, she looked so captivating when she wore her night cape. Her legs as long as the middle eastern Euphratees, just the same as her aunt from Haiti. Her feet, perfectly soft, white on top and pink bottom they looked as if for eternity she stands on cotton. I saw her once picking cherries, out on the morning prairie. She was almost a mile away, though I didn't mind how far anyway. Her very being was held such fame, I believe she could keep the whole world tame. Her long hair brushed gracefully against the grass it touched, it didn't seem to bother her much. When she was finished, I heard her sing a hymn in Finnish. She walked away until out of sight, and I felt a deep warmth in my soul all that night. She remains alone on the mountain washing her perfect hair with her crystal fountain. One rarely ever sees the maiden, with the father from Canaan. But they all know of her beauty as they talk during their duties.
