With wealth of changeful golden hair,
And eyes so bright, yet ever smiling;
That fain thought I—so fair was she —
It should be writ in Poesie!
Her name was like a poet’s dream —
And that sweet name, they call it Mary —
A word of gentle, sunny sheen —
Though names may, like young maidens, vary —
And May, with woman’s wayward will,
Had sometimes gleams of April still!