Beauty So Rare

You ask me what beauty is                            
And I will tell you                                            
There is a passion flower                            
Which blooms at midnight                          
When the moon is full        
In a garden, away from the city                    
There by a window it blooms                        
Opening itself up to the world      
The pedals, the pistil,        
The stigma and the stamen      
A flower so delicate      
Magnificent to behold      
The intoxicating aroma        
Of its nectar defuses into      
The night air      
But also, next to the window      
Is she who lies sleeping      
On an enchanted bed,      
The lamp next to her      
Still lit      
By its light her face      
Fairer than a goddess      
Soft and supple        
And a sheet covers      
Her body,    
Smooth linen lines  
Like renaissance marble,         
And she, an angel      
Her tresses on the pillow      
Expressionless is her face      
Deep in pleasant sleep      
As she lies dreaming,      
And in that dream, is the garden      
Where the passion flower grows      
More beautiful than      
Every other bloom or blossom      
Yes, finer still      
Than any other flower      
And she knows how rare        
Such exquisite beauty is      
And cups her hand behind it      
Pulls it towards her      
As she leans in      
To inhale its sweet scent      
And as she does,      
Still asleep in the dream,      
The corners of her cherub mouth      
Show the beginnings of a smile      
You ask me what beauty is      
And I tell you,        
It is she