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It was pure chance you got the name Irene,
For no one at your birth foresaw the flower
The sprite contained, nor could some lover glean
Such grace as would become you at this hour.
Nor can you now, even in late spring,
Imagine what your name will mean tomorrow,
What evanescence those sweet sounds will sing,
Or from what naked cry their sense will borrow.
No heart can summon up, nor courage dare
Encompass all the life a name has known;
Too much of what we love lies buried there,
Once again mere sound upon a stone.
How lovely the attempt, and yet absurd,
To brave both death and time with just a word. |
