Arthur V. Kent

To E. L. L.

BETTER a thousand times is my friend than the nuts of knowledge to me.

She is wise with the wisdom the flower gives to the honey-gathering bee.

The ways of her mind are free to the winds that circle infinity.

My friend is a gardener of joy, and her radiant thoughts are seeds

That soon or late will be blossoming in the green of their destined meads—

She has sown in my heart a music that was sighed through moon-lit reeds.

Frail are her songs from fairydom, and so surpassing sweet

That in them is the laugh of leaves and the gleam of green-shod feet,

And in and out thread flights of wings with soft and rhythmic beat.

She holds a great enchantment in each white, lovely hand;

The days run through her fingers like bright escaping sand,

And all but grains of loveliness her sanctuary are banned.

Her feet, so used to wind-sweet ways, for rest were never meant.

’Tis on a wonder-seeking quest their tireless steps are bent.

Her soul must be a nomad star with all the heavens for bent.