Oh you who stand by the river in a gown of willow-green,

I will make you an eager song of my heart to-night;

I will find me a feather of a singing bird that has seen

And touched the blue targe of the sky in its flight.

I will make me a quill of it, and dip in my heart and write!

I would not make you a threnody of sorrow that has been,

For you are no more than an eager child who demand

Magical tales of me, of lacquered Arabian sheen;

I will speak very softly then with your hand

In mine, a rose petal, the things that you understand.

On the waxen and beautiful tablet that is your heart

With a singing quill and the stain of my heart I will write;

I will write with the simplest words and the simplest art

All the splendors that glow so by night—

Of the Genie and the Bottle, and carpets of orient flight.

And you who are more than a princess in your gown of yellow-green

With your bird-like and trembling heart will understand