Eleanor Rogers Cox Poems

When the rose of Morn through the Dawn was breaking,
   And white on the hearth was last night's flame,
Thither to me 'twixt sleeping and waking,
   Singing out of the mists she came.
...

What waspish whim of Fate
   Was this that bade you here
Hold dim, unhonored state,
   No single courtier near?
...

I SPEAK your name—a magic thing—
Jocund April takes my hand,
Golden birds begin to sing,
...