HOW shall I sing you, Child, for whom So many lyres are strung; Or how the only tone assume That fits a Maid so young? What rocks there are on either hand! Suppose -- 'tis on the cards -- You should grow up with quite a grand Platonic hate for bards! How shall I then be shamed, undone, For ah! with what a scorn Your eyes must greet that luckless One Who rhymed you, newly born, -- Who o'er your 'helpless cradle' bent, His idle verse to turn; And twanged his tiresome instrument Above your unconcern! Nay, -- let my words be so discreet, That, keeping Chance in view, Whatever after fate you meet A part may still be true. Let others wish you mere good looks, -- Your sex is always fair; Or to be writ in fortune's books, -- She's rich who has to spare: I wish you but a heart that's kind, A head that's sound and clear; (Yet let the heart be not too blind, The head not too severe!) A joy of life, a frank delight; A not-too-large desire; And -- if you fail to find a Knight -- At least ... a trusty Squire. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JEWISH CEMETERY AT NEWPORT by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW SONNET: 148 by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE SONG OF THE OPEN ROAD by WALT WHITMAN THE MORAL FABLES: THE SHEEP AND THE DOG by AESOP THE LAST MAN: INSIGNIFICANCE OF THE WORLD by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |