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!