By: Alison Hirsch

When dreamers might imagine true love’s kiss,
They fancy stately lords upon a steed
Who’d for their maidens cross a deep abyss,
Whose tight embrace surpass the sweetest mead.

So perfect this may be for shallow dames
For whom but title, coin, and rank do care.
All bound to powder rooms and parlor games,
These ladies languish--slothful, laissez-faire.

But I look not upon such sorry swains;
My prince of mirth and wit hath whimsy true,
With spirit free, much like a lion’s mane
His ruddy face makes me rejoice anew.
  So long as laughter echoes through the halls,
  My heart he will continue to enthrall.


Alison Hirsch is a sixteen year old from New York, New York and currently attending Trinity School.