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To B O'G

Horace calls no more to me,

Homer in the dust-heap lies:

I have found hter of her eyes

Ovid's page is thumbed no more,

E'en Catullus has no choice!

There is endless, precious lore,

Such as I ne'er knew before,

In the music of her voice

Breath of hyssop steeped in wine,

Breath of violets and furze,

Wild-wood roses, Grecian myrrhs,

All these perfumes do combine

In that maiden breath of hers

Nay, I look not at the skies,

Nor the sun that hillward slips,

For the day lives or it dies

In the laughter of her eyes,

In the music of her lips!