Though in a language strange to me,
I seek a name, enough unknown
To have a meaning all my own,
And call her slowly, tenderly,
Not of New England is the charm,
Yet found within her closest shrine.
With English words I call her dear,
"My darling;" but I stammer here,
Worship to softness half divine,
The sweetest songs of English make
From ancient years of courtesy
And more, unwritten, new as spring,
Are in her presence hovering.