I thought this Pen would arise
From the casket where it lies—
       &nbsp Of itself would arise and write
My thanks and my surprise.

When you gave it me under the pines,
I dreamed these gems from the mines
       &nbsp Of Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine
Would glimmer as thoughts in the lines;

That this iron link from the chain
Of Bonnivard might retain
       &nbsp Some verse of the Poet who sang
Of the prisoner and his pain;

That this wood from the frigate's mast
Might write me a rhyme at last,
       &nbsp As it used to write on the sky
The song of the sea and the blast.

But motionless as I wait,
Like a Bishop lying in state
       &nbsp Lies the Pen, with its mitre of gold,
And its jewels inviolate.

Then must I speak, and say
That the light of that summer day
       &nbsp In the garden under the pines
Shall not fade and pass away.
I shall see you standing there,
Caressed by the fragrant air,
       &nbsp With the shadow on your face,
And the sunshine on your hair.

I shall hear the sweet low tone
Of a voice before unknown,
       &nbsp Saying, "This is from me to you—
From me, and to you alone."

And in words not idle and vain
I shall answer and thank you again
       &nbsp For the gift, and the grace of the gift,
O beautiful Helen of Maine!

And forever this gift will be
As a blessing from you to me,
       &nbsp As a drop of the dew of your youth
On the leaves of an aged tree.