Adele

Adele! a name that kindled in the breast Of France’s first-born of the fairest Muse A flame in which a thousand colors fuse And shame the April rainbows of the West; But I can only stand upon the crest Of Song’s most sacred Mount and bring excuse That I have begged, and since the gods refuse, I steal, and with the theft I thee invest,

A Sun or Moon of Song for all my oceans Of purest love, an ornament at best— A bunch of stars—a wreath for my emotions; But if the gods with sisters dear are blest, To me they all must come in joy or sorrow, From me they all must steal, or beg, or borrow.