I have read of sculptured beauties Carved by Phidias of old, With hands and feet of ivory, With draperies of gold; But to me he never equaled The grace which seems to cling To the picture of sweet Abbie A-drinking at the spring. I have read the odes of Horace And have marvelled at his art, And the sweet love-songs of Sappho Have found echoes in my heart, But the music of these poets And the love of which they sing Seem but dross compared with Abbie A-drinking at the spring. Her simple gown of muslin More regal was to me That ermine robes of princes In courts across the sea. No artist ever painted For potentate or king A picture quite like Abbie A-drinking at the spring. The rusted, battered dipper, When raised to her pure lips, Was filled with nectar sweeter Than that which Bacchus sips. No hand-wrought cup of silver Could recollections bring Like the dipper used by Abbie A-drinking at the spring. Her laughing eyes reflected The liquid depths below, And as I stood and watched them My heart was steeped in woe; Alas for me! I'm married, And bound as with a string, I must not think of Abbie A-drinking at the spring. |