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To Louise

Oh, the poets may sing of their Lady Irenes,

And may rave in their rhymes about wonderful queens;

But I throw my poetical wings to the breeze,

And soar in a song to my Lady Louise.

A sweet little maid, who is dearer, I ween,

Than any fair duchess, or even a queen.

When speaking of her I can't plod in my prose,

For she 's the wee lassie who gave me a rose.

Since poets, from seeing a lady's lip curled,

Have written fair verse that has sweetened the world;

Why, then, should not I give the space of an hour

To making a song in return for a flower?

I have found in my life--it has not been so long--

There are too few of flowers--too little of song.

So out of that blossom, this lay of mine grows,

For the dear little lady who gave me the rose.

I thank God for innocence, dearer than Art,

That lights on a by-way which leads to the heart,

And led by an impulse no less than divine,

Walks into the temple and sits at the shrine.

I would rather pluck daisies that grow in the wild,

Or take one simple rose from the hand of a child,

Then to breathe the rich fragrance of flowers that bide

In the gardens of luxury, passion, and pride.

I know not, my wee one, how came you to know

Which way to my heart was the right way to go;

Unless in your purity, soul-clean and clear,

God whispers his messages into your ear.

You have now had my song, let me end with a prayer

That your life may be always sweet, happy, and fair;

That your joys may be many, and absent your woes,

O dear little lady who gave me the rose!