Classic Poem

We know thee not, save that when thou art gone,
Thy sister, Beauty, follows in thy train,
Leaving the soul in exile till the dawn
Come with the gift of franchisement again.

HER feet along the dewy hills
Are lighter than blown thistledown;
She bears the glamour of one star
Upon her violet crown.

With her soft touch of mothering,
How soothing to the sense she seems!
She holds within her gentle hand
The quiet gift of dreams.