Sleeps in a bed of flowers, sits on twilight's bower. Her
kiss but a gentle dewdrop on the opening lips of a blossoming tulip.
Agile hands conduct the passing breeze. She is the guardian of the
garden, only three inches tall. Autumn coloured hair as fine as cornsilks,
and a voice so sweet, even the nightingales stay mute to listen.
Her smile could turn the blackest of midnights into a garish opalescent
glow. Yet, ne'er does she smile, and ne'er does she weep. Born
from a lily, she is the symbol of purity, and ageless as time itself.
