The Gardens of Versailles

    Witnessed only by the orange-scented
    garden beneath a Parisian sky, I will dance,
    like a nymph, near the Fountain of Apollo.
    At a whim, I might appear as a wood fairy
    whose home is in a cherry bough by the Grand Canal.
    Should I skip a mere hundred steps, just
    to breathe in the scent of jasmine growing
    from centuries-old bowers, then
    tip-toe through bright flowerbeds?
    But, if you wish to know, come
    the midnight hour, while stars glitter
    from beyond the moon, I’ll be resting
    near a pond by the Temple of Love,
    waiting—if I’m still your dreams.
    Come, glide toward me on your silent gondola,
    in the Gardens of Versailles.