Frances Anne Kemble (1809–1893)

BY jasper founts, whose falling waters make

Eternal music to the silent hours;

Or ’neath the gloom of solemn cypress bowers,

Through whose dark screen no prying sunbeams break:

How oft I dream I see thee wandering,

With thy majestic mien, and thoughtful eyes,

And lips, whereon all holy counsel lies,

And shining tresses of soft rippling gold,

Like to some shape, beheld in days of old

By seer or prophet, when, as poets sing,

The gods had not forsaken yet the earth,

But loved to haunt each shady dell and grove;

When every breeze was the soft breath of love;

When the blue air rang with sweet sounds of mirth,

And this dark world seemed fair as at its birth.