The white rose on the porch was all in bloom,
And out upon the bay
I watched the wheeling sea-birds go and come.
“Such an old friend—she would not make me stay
While she bound up her hair.” I turned, and lo,
Danæ in her shower! and fit to slay
All a man’s hoarded prudence at a blow:
Gold hair, that streamed away
As round some nymph a sunlit fountain’s flow.
“She would not make me wait!”—but well I know