Sight brings she to the seeing,
New song to those that hear;
Her braver spirit sounding
Where mortals fail and fear.
She at the heart of being
Serene and glad doth dwell;
Spirit with scarce a veil of flesh;
A soul made visible.
Or is it only a lovely girl
With flowers at her maiden breast?
—Helen, here is a book of song
From the poet who loves you best.
FOR THE ESPOUSALS OF JEANNE ROUMANILLE, OF AVIGNON
While joy-bells are ringing
And the high Fates meet thee,
Child of the South, and of singing,
Singing I greet thee.
In thy chaplet one flower
From a far world! Wilt wear it?
Rich tho' thy land, and this hour,
Thou may'st not forbear it;
Thou wilt welcome and win it;
It will breathe on, caress thee;
For the fame of thy father is in it;
His lover doth bless thee!
His lover—the lover of thee, O Provence;
Thy blue skies, thy gray mountains;
The heart-beat of Freedom and France
Shakes thy rivers and fountains,
