Poems (Whitney)/Undine
For works with similar titles, see Undine.
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, brightShifts and plays the captive light,Ag the northern morn in fairBerenice's golden hair;Clouds, her eyes, which cannot keepTheir sweet lightnings save in sleep; And about her mobile mouth,Fresh with north and warm with south,Importunate for their fees,Come and go invisible bees.Would you the magic will resistOf this elf monopolist?She is not like Atlas, curled,Stooping 'neath the gray old world,But she takes it lithe and bland,Easily in her small hand.Spring is hers and summer flowers,And fair autumn's. mellow hours,And winter, 'mid his hummocks set,Delights to be her hideous pet.This is what all people sayOf our charming Undine.
Erewhile I looked upon her face,And said, It is good, it lights apace;—Fills with soul as lilies with light; And, to keep it ever in sight,Wrote in my heart upon that dayThe story of sweet Undine;Who roamed at will the idle air,Empty, alas! of thought and care,Till love came, with the old surpriseOf a soul for the elfin eyes.
Better than praise thy tale doth move,Poet, that singest so well of love!Thanks, for all that on the earthSeek the sign of the second birth!Accept the gratitude I pay,Thinking of this our Undine.What Love creates, Love best can teach;And as we would that she should reachUpward, from fruitful hour to hour,To purity, and sight, and power,So we would lead her heart to knowThe love of all things, high and low; The skies, with sun and moon impearled,And underneath, the common world;And make ourselves, aught else before,Lovely, that she may love us more.