(Miss Kathleen Parlow.)
What shall we name thee,
For tho thy form was born, as ours, of earth,
Thy subtile soul seems not of mortal birth,
But stilled by some celestial Alchemist.
Whence thy consummate
Art whose dulcet spell
Is more entrancing far than elfin lutes,
Than silvery tinklings trilled from fairy flutes
And avian serenades from Philomel?
Whate'er thou art, or
whence thy witchery,
Thy music, as fond visions in the night,
Brings us dear dreams of beauty and delight,
And heals our hearts with its sweet eucrasy!