To Little Marjorie
Soft Music in those hazel eyes I see,
And tho' as yet she keeps a silent shrine,
And pours not forth her retinue divine,
Enthronéd there sits sovereign Poesy,
There slowly, slowly, kindle fancies free,
While sweetest thoughts in that sweet face combine
To aid the goddess in her dear design,
And wake at length in brightest symphony.
If aught of art prophetic I possess,
No lowly sphere for thee the Fates ordain;
But from those vermeil lips a loveliness,
As yet unheard, shall rise in raptured strain,
Till all the countless race of men confess
The god Apollo sings on earth again.
Soft Music in those hazel eyes I see,
And tho' as yet she keeps a silent shrine,
And pours not forth her retinue divine,
Enthronéd there sits sovereign Poesy,
There slowly, slowly, kindle fancies free,
While sweetest thoughts in that sweet face combine
To aid the goddess in her dear design,
And wake at length in brightest symphony.
If aught of art prophetic I possess,
No lowly sphere for thee the Fates ordain;
But from those vermeil lips a loveliness,
As yet unheard, shall rise in raptured strain,
Till all the countless race of men confess
The god Apollo sings on earth again.