Bright Aspasia! say—how is it?
Tell us with what spell is rife
Smile of thine, whose briefest visit
Wakes each dullest clod to life?
Zephyr shall we type thee, thawing
Vernal flower from Arctic block?
Or some Attic sun-beam, drawing
Hidden oil from rudest rock?
Or believe thee sprite of ages?
Very Her, whom Socrates
Worshipped more than all the Sages,
All the vaunted Seven of Greece.
And their systems throwing over
For the lessons of her eyes,
Happy pupil! happier lover!
Doubly won his name of 'Wise.'
So come thou, delicious preacher!
Orator—of sparkling looks!
Come, like Her, and be our teacher;
Better far than all the books.
Book-worm pedants but benight us;
Cumbrous setting clouds the gem.
Bring but thy bright smile to light us,
And who'd go for fogs to them?
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Comments about this poem (Aspasia by John Kenyon )
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