THE IRON PEN

I thought this Pen would arise From the casket where it lies— Of itself would arise and write My thanks and my surprise.

When you gave it me under the pines, I dreamed these gems from the mines Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines;

That this iron link from the chain Of Bonnivard might retain Some verse of the Poet who sang Of the prisoner and his pain;

That this wood from the frigate's mast Might write me a rhyme at last, As it used to write on the sky The song of the sea and the blast.

\But motionless as I wait, Like a Bishop lying in state Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold, And its jewels inviolate.

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.

I shall see you standing there, Caressed by the fragrant air, With the shadow on your face, And the sunshine on your hair.

I shall hear the sweet low tone Of a voice before unknown, Saying, "This is from me to you— From me, and to you alone."

And in words not idle and vain I shall answer and thank you again For the gift, and the grace of the gift, O beautiful Helen of Maine!

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.