Classic Poem

TO MISS E. B .

A GODDESS formed from Parian clay,
 An angel robed in white,
A nymph that hath been lured away
 From some far mountain height.

And they have brought her to the town
 And schooled her in their schools,
And clad her in a woven gown,
 And vexed her soul with rules.

And they have taught her feet to tread
 The wisdom of their ways,
And they have filled that shapely head
 With lore of ancient days.

That daughter of a happier age,
 Child of diviner skies,
She bends above the modern page
 With sad, rebellious eyes.

And they that watch her do not dream
 How that wild heart is stirred
By every murmur of the stream,
 And every calling bird.

Nor do they guess how she doth hear
 Sweet sylvan voices speak,
Nor do they see the answering tear
 That trembles on her cheek.

But well I ken how much of woe
 Dwells in that fair, soft breast,
And all how much that soul doth know
 Of days that were more blest.

There is a threat upon that brow,
 And that Olympian tread
Was never caught by limbs that bow
 Submissive to be led.

They will not stay—those souls divine,
 For all the gold of Crassus,
That once have tasted of the vine
 Which buds upon Parnassus.

And she will go—to seek that land
 From which she wandered down,
Nor will she rest till her white hand
 Hath grasped the deathless crown.

Thus to our undiscerning eyes
 The truth remains unknown,
Till swooping from the silent skies
 The gods reclaim their own,
And we stand rapt in dumb surprise,
 Astonished and alone.