Classic Poem

A wistful poet long and slim,
Went down the greenwood way;
The shy spring blossoms leaned to him,
He seemed as shy as they.

Plucking a flower here and there,
And here and there a leaf,
He moralized — " That things so fair
Should be, alack, so brief! "

With heedful finger at his lip
He strayed, until he came
Where sat a slender young she-slip
With eyes of dancing flame.

She laughed, like sunlight on the stream,
And he forgot the leaves;
No more of blossoms he could dream
Than Izrafel of beeves.

She laughed; he knew not what to say,
But gasped, he knew not why;
She laughed; and he, — it was his way, —
Forgot that he was shy!

" What found, of wave pellucid, lends
Thee to the air? " said he,
" Or round thy dim abode extends
The sap-rind of what tree?

" Or art thou Helen, for whose kiss,
The ten-years-anguished fray
And woes that crimsoned Simois
Were not too much to pay?

" Or art thou Lilith, whose deep eyes
Made our great father glad,
Ere Eve came into Paradise
And drove him to the bad?

" Or " — But her lips now grew so red,
His trembled and were dumb.
" Oh, yes, I'm all of these! " she said;
" And more I may become!

" The Muse of late begins to feel
The plight that you are in,
She sees the quest of your ideal
Has made you really thin.

" So, I am she whose face and form
You've always hoped to find
In every love that took by storm
Your much beleaguered mind.

" Now, you may rest. You'll need to chase
No more from clime to clime
Each haunting form, each witching face!
I'll be here all the time! "

Deep in his heart the poet mused:
" I like the good old way,
The methods I have always used, —
I like those maids of clay!

" I dread her threatened constancy!
But oh, her lips are real!
And, if I should grow wearied, why,
I'll make a new ideal! "