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."
R. W. C.
PREFACE
Always animated by a desire to contribute in a small way toward scientific investigation, the author offers this humble volume to a more serious audience than he has so far ventured to address.