Clouds drift 'cross a velvet sky
moonlight caresses a silken thigh
In fitful slumber she toss'd and turn'd
as deep within, strange desires burn'd -
As yet, merely a ripple.

Aurora lifts the dark veil of night
to bathe a troubl'd brow with golden light
from restless slumber, the maiden arose;
with half membr'd dreams, and unknown woes -
yet beneath there lay a ripple.

She floats through life with not a care
'till spies two lovers, caught unaware
with modest blush, she shields her eyes
but 'tween slender fingers, glimpses the prize -
and feels the gentle, stirring ripple.

With innocence lost and knowledge gain'd
first bravely hopes, now suddenly pain'd
as all of Nature demands two-by-two
Alas, she hath no loyal knight and true -
and grows weary of this ripple.

Still, on wings of darkness he comes to her
to silently witness the fetching lure,
of tempt'd and temptress in union sweet
'till the knowing sun bids him retreat -
and is his wake remains a ripple.

The dream has vanish'd, now awake
she feels a warmth, but begins to shake
A familar voice; an unknown name?
her only clues to play this game -
barely more than a ripple.

She left her bed, she left her gloom
she made three paces 'bout the room
and paused where she dreamt him near,
to vow a promise and dry a tear -
that upon her cheek left a ripple.

With heavy heart, she lightly goes
haunted by dreams and vague shadows
examines many worthy, yet finds no one
disguised by night, revealed by sun -
and fears it was only a ripple.

And at the closing of the day
with tremblin' sigh, down she lay
she thought she heard a whisper say:
"I love thee true and forev'r will stay."
And standing in the moonlight clear,
she knew his voice, his face so dear
that cloth'd in mystery did always appear
hidden in dreams, now reveal'd so near.
Here, upon bent knee, her own true knight!
Beneath heavenly clusters bright,
with faithful heart, proved tender might;
by guarding her slumber 'till mornin' light -
And showed her the measure of a ripple.


This original verse was inspired by the poem, "Eve of St. Agnes" by John Keats, which in turn was based upon the superstition that if a maiden performed certain rituals on the Eve of St. Agnes, she would dream of her future husband.   There is also a Scottish version of the ritual, you may recall this rhyme from when you were a little girl: 

“ Agnes sweet, and Agnes fair, Hither, hither, now repair; Bonny Agnes, let me see The lad who is to marry me. ”

 This mommy is normally offline on Thursdays.  So if you want to continue with the warm and fuzzy feelings.......check out other inspiring prose on my Prose and Quotes page.