To Isadore Edgar Allan Poe

I.

BENEATH the vine-clad eaves
        Whose shadows fall before
        Thy lowly cottage door—
Under the lilac’s tremulous leaves—
Within thy snowy clasped hand
The purple flowers it bore—
Last eve in dreams, I saw thee stand,
Like queenly nymph from Fairy-land—
—Enchantress of the flowery wand,
        Most beautiful Isadore!

II.

And when I bade the dream
        Upon thy spirit flee,
        Thy violet eyes to me
Upturned, did overflowing seem
With the deep, untold delight
        Of Love’s serenity;
Thy classic brow, like lilies white
And pale as the Imperial Night
Upon her throne, with stars bedight,
        Enthrall’d my soul to thee!