Poetry Archives

Know you, winds that blow your course
  Down the verdant valleys,
That somewhere you must, perforce,
  Kiss the brow of Alice?
When her gentle face you find,
Kiss it softly, naughty wind.

Roses waving fair and sweet
  Thro’ the garden alleys,
Grow into a glory meet
  For the eye of Alice;
Let the wind your offering bear
Of sweet perfume, faint and rare.

Lily holding crystal dew
  In your pure white chalice,
Nature kind hath fashioned you
  Like the soul of Alice;
It of purest white is wrought,
Filled with gems of crystal thought.