Indwelling poetry shone from his face,
A fitting mate in some sweet, sylvan nook:
Enough of joy without the slender book
Of Keats’ Endymion whose words would lace
With all the fragrance round and then embrace
The gods of old, their musings unforsook,
And dreamings of our day, the lovely look
Of him who read aloud with eager grace.

Too much amaze and rapturous accord
To dure through hoary times. The sky grew dim,
The chaste Diana sank in drear eclipse;
And night unstarred itself: a soul had soared:
A playmate, helpmate! Who was like to him?
What wealth of thought had flowed from his dear lips!

Source: Amy Redpath Roddick, "The Iroquois Enjoy a Perfect Day, A Chance Meeting, and other Poems" (Montreal: John Dougall & Son, 1939), 43

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