I THOUGHT this Pen would arise | |
| From the casket where it lies | |
| Of itself would arise and write | |
| My thanks and my surprise. | |
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| When you gave it me under the pines, | 5 |
| I dreamed these gems from the mines | |
| Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine | |
| Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines; | |
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| That this iron link from the chain | |
| Of Bonnivard might retain | 10 |
| Some verse of the Poet who sang | |
| Of the prisoner and his pain; | |
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| That this wood from the frigates mast | |
| Might write me a rhyme at last, | |
| As it used to write on the sky | 15 |
| The song of the sea and the blast. | |
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| But motionless as I wait, | |
| Like a Bishop lying in state | |
| Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, | |
| And its jewels inviolate. | 20 |
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| Then must I speak, and say | |
| That the light of that summer day | |
| In the garden under the pines | |
| Shall not fade and pass away. | |
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| I shall see you standing there, | 25 |
| Caressed by the fragrant air, | |
| With the shadow on your face, | |
| And the sunshine on your hair. | |
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| I shall hear the sweet low tone | |
| Of a voice before unknown, | 30 |
| Saying, This is from me to you | |
| From me, and to you alone. | |
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| And in words not idle and vain | |
| I shall answer and thank you again | |
| For the gift, and the grace of the gift, | 35 |
| O beautiful Helen of Maine! | |
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| And forever this gift will be | |
| As a blessing from you to me, | |
| As a drop of the dew of your youth | |
| On the leaves of an aged tree. | 40 |
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