Glade, you seem to me an eternal
or let's say perpetual suprise.
Your shyness, if that's the case,
a continually, yet unexpectedly
unveiled disguise.
Though, wisely thought,
how could it be otherwise:
your appearance in the midst
of a forest, within the depths
of our mist, so precise, as it
can't be measured; certainly not
with this or preasumably
otherwise conceivable devise.

(glade: glänta)