Classic Poem

Although you might surmise
She descended from the skies
Yesterday,
My Phillida would scorn
To deny that she was born
Quite the ordinary way.

But should you ask her " when? "
She will smile upon you then,
With an air
That would seem to indicate
She was just as old as fate,
With the ages in her hair.

The month, the day, perchance,
She'll confess with merry glance;
For she knows
A birthday-box may come, —
Something that may tell, though dumb,
More than words would dare disclose.

But never will you gain
What is locked within her brain, —
Videlicet:
What year, most happy one,
First awakened to the sun
Those deep eyes of violet.

And yet she is, in truth,
Such a paragon of youth,
You'll agree
The subject of her years
Could not be a source of fears,
To a maid so young as she.

But Phillida is sage!
If to-day she told her age
Frank and fair,
Five and twenty years from now
Some one might the truth avow,
When she does begin to care.