SWEET SEVENTEEN by FREDERICK WILLIAM HENRY MYERS

I KNEW a maid; her form and face
Were lily-slender, lily-fair;
Hers was a wild unconscious grace,
A ruddy-golden crown of hair.

Thro' those child-eyes unchecked, untamed,
The happy thoughts transparent flew,
Yet some pathetic touch had tamed
To gentler grey their Irish blue.

So from her oak a Dryad leant
To look, with wondering glance and gay,
Where Jove, uncrowned and kingly, went
With Maia down the woodland way.

Their glory lit the amorous air;
The golden touched the Olympian head;
But Zephyr o'er Cyllene bare
That secret the Immortals said.

The nymph they saw not, passing nigh;
She melted in her leafy screen;
But from the boughs that seemed to sigh
A dewdrop trembled on the green.

That nymph her oak for aye must hold;
The girl has life and hope, and she
Shall hear one day the secret told,
And roam herself in Arcady.

I see her still; her cheek aglow,
Her gaze upon the future bent;
As one who through the world will go
Beloved, bewitching, innocent.

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