Poems (Whitney)/Undine

by Anne Whitney

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, bright
Shifts and plays the captive light,
Ag the northern morn in fair
Berenice's golden hair;
Clouds, her eyes, which cannot keep
Their 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 resist
Of 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 say
Of 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 day
The story of sweet Undine;
Who roamed at will the idle air,
Empty, alas! of thought and care,
Till love came, with the old surprise
Of 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 earth
Seek 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 reach
Upward, from fruitful hour to hour,
To purity, and sight, and power,
So we would lead her heart to know
The 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.