The Clock’s Song
Eileen of four,
Eileen of smiles;
Eileen of five,
Eileen of tears;
Eileen of ten, of fifteen years,
Eileen of youth
And woman’s wiles;
Eileen of twenty,
In love’s land,
Eileen all tender
In her bliss,
Untouched by sorrow’s treacherous kiss,
And the sly weapons in life’s hand,—
Eileen aroused to share all fate,
Eileen a wife,
Pale, beautiful,
Eileen most grave and dutiful,
Mourning her dreams in queenly state.
Eileen! Eileen!...