To Edith May

I have not seen thee, Edith May; they say thy face is fair—But I know thy soul, that is not seen, and know it high and rare;And I love thee by a sign that's given to every poet soul—That spirit-linking sympathy beyond our own control.There is a lyre within my heart as there is one in thine,But a plaintive, low-voiced, murmuring thing is this frail lyre of mine;Not grand, and wild, and proudly toned, yet scorning mirth withal,Like the harps our fancy hears at times in some old knightly hall;But softly glad and wildly sad, with a thousand nameless stringsThat wake, as doth the rose-leaf wake, to the breath of unseen things.

Not less for this it echoes all the tones of higher skill,And trembles most with rapture when another's touch can thrill.For this I love thee, Edith May, thy spirit's voice I hear,Like the strain of some grand melody resounding in my ear;And visions rise before my eyes of hosts in armor bound,And like a voice within a dream, I hear the clarion's sound;And gorgeous banners broidered o'er with many a strange design,With burnished lance and waving plume, deck out the shadowy line—Anon the sunset's crimson cloud is fading o'er the hill,And the chieftain's farewell bugle-note is sounding sad and shrill;

And standing on the castle wall I see a lady fair,With pallid face, and waving scarf, and unbound raven hair;While winding up the distant hill the long defile hath passed,And the lady on the chief she loved hath fondly looked her last.All old-time scenes of war and pomp, of love and minstrelsy,Of kingly sports, and courtly dames, and knightly rivalry;All by-gone themes once wont to stir the blood of princely men,Swell my dreaming heart with lofty pride, and the dead past lives again;And I love thy harp's grand tone that wakes my spirit's high romance,And praise thee that thou hast for thine this rich inheritance.

I have a sister, Edith May, a sister pure and young,With a holy heart, and gifted mind, and sweetly eloquent tongue;And to her I bear a feeling which can have no earthly name,But our souls are linked, our hearts are joined, and our loves are aye the same;And a glorious world of dreams have we, a rare poetic world,Where fancy's restless golden wings are glittering unfurled—Where love sits like a household form, a dear, familiar thing,And countless fairy visions float forever on the wing;And here amid the whispered strains of spirit-minstrelsy,I listen with my dreaming soul for one wild note from thee.

I have not seen thee, Edith May—they call thy youthful faceThe lovely index of the soul, its poetry and grace;And blest I deem that thou must be, so gifted, young, and fair,Yet these alone fill not the heart if love be wanting there;For hearts like ours, dear Edith May, need love as do the flowersThe breath of the caressing wind and heaven's genial showers:And I would breathe a prayer to God to bless thy heart's young dream,But with those peerless gifts of thine my prayer would idle seem.Then fare-thee-well, young poetess! may not my waiting earList long in vain for that wild strain it loveth most to hear.