Who is Sylvia

when her own path

she hews,

Teddy in hand?

The little one looks on

a small, dark stream

and makes

beautiful connection

with the glen

chosen by a God

free of envy.

Praise comes when

laurels from the sea,

though etto false,

meet the rock

of bowed and crooked town.

Who is Sylvia?

What is she?

That all our swains commend her?

Holy, fair and wise is she.

She is a gas.