Classic Poem

Could tongue define
In warbling line
The music of this heart of mine,
'Twould sing, to-day,
A roundelay
For thee, ma belle Creole Althee!

But words are weak,
When words would speak
The ripeness of thy satin cheek,
Or pearl that tips
With dewy sips
The arches of those blushing lips.

The floods of lace
That flirt and race
In eddying ripples round thy face,
Have framed, I ween,
In magic mien,
The daintiest image ever seen.

Ah, sweet Althee!
Around thee play
The plumed and crystal tribes of May;
And in those eyes
Float, flash, and rise
Gay atmosphere of orient guise.

The eyes — the eyes!
The planet eyes
Fresh from their dreams of Paradise!
My spirit sees,
But never flees
Their sorcery of sorceries.

Truth, Grace, and Love
From worlds above —
Hints of the Pure and Holy Dove —
Divinely bright,
These gems of sight
Are throned upon their globes of light.

Thus heaven-beguiled,
Beloved child,
Have all the cherubs on thee smiled;
Let joys depart,
Still, Sweet, thou art
Voiced in the Virgin's sacred heart.

Madonna! fold
Her heart of gold
In thy dear arms, when it is cold;
Madonna! sing
This bird of spring
To sleep beneath thy velvet wing!