Page:Poems Whitney.djvu/96

UNDINE.

There is a small and daring sprite,
She is three years old to-night,—
Whom I call, La Motte Fouqué,
After your fairy Undine!
Mid her wind-blown tresses, bright
Shifts and plays the captive light,
Ag the northern morn in fair
Berenice's golden hair;
Clouds, her eyes, which cannot keep
Their sweet lightnings save in sleep;