Sylvia

Clinton Scollard, 1914

Sylvia's hair is like the night, Touched with glancing starry beams; Such a face as drifts thro' dreams, This is Sylvia to the sight. And the touch of Sylvia's hand Is as light as milkweed down, When the meads are golden brown, And the autumn fills the land. Sylvia:- just the echoing Of her voice brings back to me, From the depths of memory, All the loveliness of spring: Sylvia! Sylvia! Such a face as drifts thro' dreams, This is Sylvia to the sight.