IN A BOOK OF GIBSON’S DRAWINGS
You may turn these pages over,
Looking for the priceless pearl;
You may search from back to cover
For the finest Gibson girl.
You can save yourself the trouble—
It’s no earthly use to look:
The charming girl who takes the medal
Is a-holding of the book.
IN A VOLUME OF MISS GUINEY’S POEMS
A maker of smooth verse and facile rhymes,
And lover of quaint legends from old times;
A joyous singer in New England bleak—
Her heart is Irish and her mind is Greek.
IN “BARBARA FRIETCHIE—A PLAY”
TO J. M.
We met her first in Arcady,
Where visions fair are apt to be,
Roaming beneath the arching trees—
Her laughter cheering up the breeze;
Sometimes as gay as Colinette,
Then fond and sad as Juliet.
And when we’d had enough of anguish
She’d make us laugh as Lydia Languish.
No mask or mood was twice the same—
Yet one fair face behind each name.
As that bright vixen of the mind,
The fascinating Rosalīnd—
As Imogen or Viola,
Or, best of all, sweet Barbara—
Always the same alluring grace
And wit that sparkles in her face!
The road to Arcady is far
And sometimes lonely for a star—
But all the phantoms of the air
And poets’ dreams that wander there
Would miss the welcome we extend,
Not to her Art—just to a friend!