To Sweet Seventeen

To thee, young queen, these tribute lines
Charged with my love — the word is writ;
A daintier word were false; but "love "
No more can tell the soul of it,

Than "light " can tell the myriad mood
Of sunshine; from the fickle play
Which frolics through the dappled leaves
When all the lanes are white with May,

To that full bliss of warmth which lies
Delirious on the breast of June,
Or sunset flash of burdened heavens,
Or dreamy glow of autumn noon.

So " love " — poor word — is all we have,
To paint each radiant power that makes
The sunshine of a human heart;
From the sweet sense of want which wakes

In childhood's breast, to ripe repose
Of wedded faith, or ecstasy
Of passionate youth, or such delight
As that I take, fair girl, in thee.