Classic Poem

A bubble cast upon a boundless sea
Of rhyme; one note struck from a tuneless lyre,
And heeded not by those that nearest be;
A child's song uttered in a mighty choir;
This verse may not to better fate aspire.
Oh, that it were some gift to offer thee,
Some rare stone's heart, aglow with priceless fire,
Potent with hidden charms, unknown to all save me.

Such gift is not in all my little store;
The eager, nimble fingers of Defeat
Have turned too oft my heap of treasures o'er,
And culled therefrom all worthy things and meet.
Oh, that I might, then, in this lone retreat,
Enwrap thy name, as Laura's erst of yore,
In quaint thought-sheaflets, keeping green and sweet,
When I have silent been, long since, forevermore.

Beauty is vain from Flattery's senseless mead,
In all remembered and forgotten song,
Since love-lorn shepherd first on slender reed
Piped madness sweet some ancient brook along.
Let me, presumptuous, leave this servile throng,
Awhile, at least, from Beauty's shackles freed;
I cast them from me once, with impulse strong,
And lo, no bruise was left, no scar to smart and bleed.

Fair Cytherea, — thou whose form divine,
A splendid flower, unfolded on the main —
Unfolded, and was mirrored in the brine, —
I know thee, and I know thy fickle reign;
Unseemly, reckless, have been all thy train,
From her who melted jewels in her wine
Down to that so-called Lily, soiled and vain —
Ah, slandered flower, such grace, such purity is thine!

I fancy that dear Florence Nightingale
To dying eyes, and eyes that looked despair —
Although her cheeks were fever-sunk and pale —
Seemed wondrous sweet, and ravishingly fair;
And thou, my own, these eyes, in joy and care,
Have found thee decked with graces that avail
To make thy presence exquisite and rare —
Fragrant from hidden sweets that Time may ne'er assail.