Gilded Vellum

The gold, old Master Binder, thou didst chase
On the book's back and in the edge's grain,
Despite the irons pushed with free-hand main,
In vivid, brilliant hue no more we trace.

The figures which so deftly interlace
Grow daily on the fine, white skin less plain;
And scarce we see the ivy thou didst train
To wind in beauty o'er the cover's space.

But this translucent, supple ivory,
Marguerite, Marie—Diane, it e'en may be,
With loving fingers have of old caressed;

And this paled vellum Clovis Eve gilt seems
To evoke, I know not by what charm possessed,
Their perfume's spirit and shadow of their dreams.