Queen Allie

Little Allie all alone,
With an arm-chair for a throne, 
Ruler of a fairy-land
Broader than we understand, 
With her ministers unseen!

See her with her budding breast
Half concealed and half-expressed, 
With her white arm round and bare,
Reamed with dimples here and there,
Foot across foot, and one knee 
Slipping from its embroidery
While a single band, half-bent, 
Holds it thus without intent!

O, for graphic art to trace,
Half that pure unstudied grace,
O, 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 and couriers go
By a way we cannot know, 
Out of shining cities these, 
Those from golden provinces;
Some to bear their monarch's will
To the lambs upon the hill, 
Some to bring the loyal prayer 
Of the warblers of the air;
One to tax the squirrel's glee, 
One the willing hones-bee.
All the lilies of the field
Tribute of their odors yield, 
And the tenderest of their hues 
Through her baby cheek diffuse,
All the roses of the dell 
Give allegiance as well,
And their tintings, soft and fresh, 
Come to 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 its liquid trill;
Sprites, that paint the midnight skies 
Starry black, adorn her eyes;
Hands that curl the cloudlets there 
Twine the dark wealth of her hair;
And the brooks that sing and dance 
In the sunbeam's broken glance,
Bring the artless grace that swims 
In the motion of her limbs,
While a quick smile's glimmer slips
O'er the ripple of her lips!

All the while she holds discourse 
With her viewless councilors, 
And their sweet amenities
By her gracious words we guess,
As the answers of a bird
Hints the song we had not heard.

Baby Allie, queen of love!
Crowned when sent us from above, I
n our hearts another realm 
Feels thy hand upon its helm, 
And our duty comes and goes 
As thy winged fancy does.
We forget the frost of years, 
Labor's care and sorrow's tears, 
And are children in thy train 
With a service frank and fain,
Giving only to receive
Largesse better than we give, 
For our frigid common sense, 
And dear-bought experience,
Taking love as pure as dew, 
Simple faith and 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;
Kiss me, darling, for my rhyme,
And God keep thee all the time!