To Genevieve Poem by Albert Pike

Of all the rivers of the West,
I love the clear Neosho best;
For there was I first truly blest,
There first in my fond arms I pressed
My blushing Genevieve.
Her eyes were bright, yet black as night,
And radiant with love's holy light,—
A tender, melancholy pair,
Brilliant as if were throned there
Twin love-stars of the eve.
How dear to me that rosy mouth,
Sweet as the sweet-brier of the South,—
These little, graceful, dancing feet,
That flew so joyfully to meet
Me, on our old, rude, oaken seat,
Close to the clear Neosho!

On my fond heart her forehead fair
In trusting fondness pillowed there;
The sunshine, flashing from her hair,
With golden glory filled the air
That swam round Genevieve.
Her lips divine pressed close to mine,—
Nay, frown not, Dian!—pure as thine
Were soul and heart, and lip and eye;
Pure as an angel of the sky
Was my sweet Genevieve;—
Her bosom's snowy paradise,
Forbidden to unhallowed eyes,
Beat with devotion on my breast;
And, clasping fondly her slight waist,
Those rosy, loving lips I kissed,
Chaste as the cold Neosho.

The river murmured in its bed;
The scented clover round us spread;
The birds sang gladly overhead;
Bees at the honeysuckle fed;—
All loved my Genevieve.
Her petted deer was ever near,
A gentle thing, devoid of fear;
The flowering vines above us made
A silver dusk, half light, half shade,
From morn till dewy eve.
And there she murmured in my ear
The words I longed and hoped to hear,
Confessing she was all my own,
Which her dear eyes before had shown,
While often we sat there alone,
Close to the clear Neosho.

Over the lofty Cavanole
The crimson clouds still foam and roll
But she is gone that was the soul,
Illuming like a sun the whole,
My sweet young Genevieve.
Vanished are those bright hours that rose,
Like golden drifts at day's soft close;
That face no longer greets me here,
Which made the3e grassy banks so dear,
I stay behind to grieve.
Yet still I love the tranquil tide,
On which I wooed and won my bride.
Long years have passed since she was there,
Yet I preserve with jealous care,
Our old, rude, twisted oaken chair,
That hallows the Neosho.