Little Allie, black-eyed chit,
How she baffles all my wit,
As she sits in silent wood
In her happy solitude,
And I guess what fancies lie
For behind that midnight eye,
Till anon in light they break,
Like the ripples on a lake
When a gold-fish, leaping, leaves
Rings around the spot he cleaves.
Could I enter to her sphere,
Breathe its air so subtle-clear,
Hear its music, low & fine,
Catch its glories crystalline,
And the odor-cloud that swells
From its nodding asphodels,
Gather its perennial flowers
Wet with purer dew than ours,
Then in living song declare
Half the glories brooding there,
What a melody intense
Would o’erflood the raptured sense!
How should Music’s wingéd ear
Soar unutterably far!
Little Allie all alone,
With an arm-chair for her throne,
Ruler of a fairy-land
Broader than we understand,
Sits & reigns, a little Queen,
With her ministers unseen.
See her, with that budding breast
Half-concealed & half expressed,
With her polished, white arm bare,
Reamed with dimples here & there,
Foot across foot, & one knee
Slipping from its broidery,
White a single hand half heart
Holds it thus without intent;
Oh, for graphic set to trace
Lines of that unstudied grace!
Oh, for liquid words to tell
What the glad eye loves so well!
In that realm of waking dream
All we love her subjects seem;
Couriers come & couriers go
By a way we cannot know;
Out of shining cities there,
Those from golden provences;
Some to hear their Lady’s will
To the lambs along the hill,
Some to bring the loyal prayer
Of the warblers of the air;
One to tax the squirrel’s glee,
One the willing honey-bee.
All the lilies of the field
Tribute of their odors yield,
And the tenderest of their hues
Through her ruddy cheek diffuse;
All the roses of the dell
Give allegiance as well,
And their tintings, soft & fresh,
Come & go through all her flesh.
Streamers of the northern light
On her errands speed their flight,
To her mobile features bring
Their unfixed illumining;
Bob-o-Lincoln from his bill
Gives her voice in its liquid trill;
Sprites that paint the midnight kiss
Starry black, adorn her eyes;
Hands that curl the cloudlets there
Twine the dark wealth of her hair,
And the brooks, that sing & dance
In the sunbeam’s broken glance,
Bring the artless grace that swims
In the motion of her limbs,
And the smile that fades & slips
‘Twixt the petals of her lips.
All the while she holds discourse
With her viewless Councilors,
And there’s sweet amenities
By her gracious words we guess,
As the answer of a bird
Hints the song we had not heard.
Musing Allie, Queen of love,
Crowned when sent us from above,
In our hearts another realm
Feels thy hand upon its helm,
And our duty comes & goes
As thy winged fancy does.
We forget the frost of years,
Labor’s care, & sorrow’s tears,
And are children in thy train,
With a service frank & fain, –
Giving, only to receive
Largess better than we give;
For our frigid common-sense,
And dear-bought experience,
Taking love as pure as dew,
Simple faith, & manners true,
Things that, could they bide with men,
‘Twere the Golden Age again!
Little Allie, black eyed Queen!
Now she laughs, for I am seen,
And the twinkle of her glee
Down the graves smile runs pure,
As the sun-gleam’s rippling gold
On a brook the alders fold;
Kiss me, Darling, for my rhyme,
And God keep thee all the time!
Little Allie