Poem by Francis Thompson

Chose Vue

A metrical caprice.

Up she rose, fair daughter-well she was graced
As a cloud her going, stept from her chair,
As a summer-soft cloud, in her going paced,
Down dropped her riband-band, and all her waving hair
Shook like loosened music cadent to her waist;-
Lapsing like music, wavery as water,
Slid to her waist. 

1. Dream-Tryst
2. To My Godchild, Francis M.W.M.
3. Gilded Gold
4. The Making of Viola
5. To a Child Heard Repeating Her Mother's Verses

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