My Goddess.

Say, which Immortal     Merits the highest reward?     With none contend I,     But I will give it     To the aye-changing,     Ever-moving     Wondrous daughter of Jove.     His best-beloved offspring.     Sweet Phantasy.     For unto her     Hath he granted     All the fancies which erst     To none allow'd he     Saving himself;     Now he takes his pleasure     In the mad one.     She may, crowned with roses,     With staff twined round with lilies,     Roam thro' flow'ry valleys,     Rule the butterfly-people,     And soft-nourishing dew     With bee-like lips     Drink from the blossom:     Or else she may     With fluttering hair     And gloomy looks     Sigh in the wind     Round rocky cliffs,     And thousand-hued.     Like morn and even.     Ever changing,     Like moonbeam's light,     To mortals appear.     Let us all, then,     Adore the Father!     The old, the mighty,     Who such a beauteous     Ne'er-fading spouse     Deigns to accord     To perishing mortals!     To us alone     Doth he unite her,     With heavenly bonds,     While he commands her,     in joy and sorrow,     As a true spouse     Never to fly us.     All the remaining     Races so poor     Of life-teeming earth.     In children so rich.     Wander and feed     In vacant enjoyment,     And 'mid the dark sorrows     Of evanescent     Restricted life,     Bow'd by the heavy     Yoke of Necessity.     But unto us he     Hath his most versatile,     Most cherished daughter     Granted, what joy!     Lovingly greet her     As a beloved one!     Give her the woman's     Place in our home!     And oh, may the aged     Stepmother Wisdom     Her gentle spirit     Ne'er seek to harm!     Yet know I her sister,     The older, sedater,     Mine own silent friend;     Oh, may she never,     Till life's lamp is quench'd,     Turn away from me,     That noble inciter,     Comforter, Hope!