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To rhyme your name

With something lovely, fresh and young,

And sing the same

In measures heretofore unsung,

Is far beyond me, I'm afraid;

I'll not attempt it, dearest maid.

No, not in verse,

Synthetic, stately, classic, chaste,

Shall I rehearse —

Although in perfectly good taste —

A catalogue of every grace

That you inherit from your race.

Gracious and kind,

The gods your beauty gave to you,

And with a mind

These same kind gods endowed you, too;

That charming union is, I fear,

Somewhat uncommon on this sphere.

I have no doubt

That scores of poets chant your fame;

No doubt, about

A million suitors press their claim;

And fashion, elegance and wit

Are at your feet inclined to sit.

Penelope,

The fire-light flickers to and fro:

In you I see

The winsome child I used to know —

My little Maiden of Romance

Still whirling in your Shadow Dance.

Though woman-grown,

To my unreconciled surprise

I gladly own

The same light lies within your eyes —

The same sweet candour which beguiled

Your rhymster when you were a child.

And so I come,

With limping verse to you again,

Amid the hum

Of that young world wherein you reign —

Only a moment to appear

And say: "Your rhymster loves you, dear."