The pretty and demure girl sits and observes the world, while the cynical and neurotic aesthete observes and admires her beauty, via the lens of his camera.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down

A tramp sits down next to the Polish maiden with silky legs, and begins a conversation. Tramps have feelings too, you know. Bless his soul!

The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown

Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home

The legs on this woman seem to have been sculpted by Michelangelo himself.

But Benvenuto would hear nothing of it, so he sculpted his own pair.

She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath

Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn

It cannot be denied that pregnant women exude a sort of primal magnetism. There's just something about the fullness of a woman in bloom that leaves many a single man on the brink of lustful despair.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toil me back from thee to my sole self!

I never did capture her face, but let us not dwell on what could have been! Let us instead dwell on what is - an irresistible pair of legs!

I daresay this woman is at least 30. And considering that today's mid-life crisis hits at about that age, I'd say she's experiencing hers. Mine is a few years around the corner. Stop! Time, are you listening to me? Stop! Please!

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream

Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?