Hebe is a mystery, Moving in a woman’s guise, Through a silent sacristy-- Holy as her lovely eyes.
Hebe is a magnet strong, Drawing strength from strength each day, She is like a glorious song, Growing sweeter in its sway;
Melting mind and heart at first, Thrilling all the senses whole, ’Til in its melodic burst, Leaps triumphant o’er the soul.
Hebe is enchanting when All the world seems most awry; She smiles brightly o’er me, then Earth is gone and heaven is nigh.
Hebe is both pro and con-- She is understanding’s own. Was there ever paragon Such as she to scholars known?
She is younger than her youth, She is older than her race, She is clearer than the truth, Tender as her winsome face.
Nature’s contradiction she, Turning science upside down; She is Love’s own mystery, From her heel up to her crown.
Hebe is all things of joy: She is joy--joy was forgot ’Til she came, here to employ Lover’s arts the Greeks knew not.
She is supple, strong, and sweet; She is full of gentle mirth-- Happy are her splendid feet, They are worthy of the earth.
She is sportive as a child, She is wise as she is kind, With a temper firm yet mild, She controls her earnest mind.
Tears may fall as drenching rain, She will make each tear a pearl, And the heart when full of pain, She can set in joyful whirl.
Who records this maid of bliss? I, who love her every act. Greater myst’ry yet is this: Hebe is a splendid fact.
Let us go While Spring’s delicious breezes blow, And see the dunes and sedges grow Green, white, and red-- Now Winter’s sped-- And all the moorland is aglow.
Let us feel The magic breath of springtime steal On us, and everywhere reveal The joyous strife Of bursting life, And hear the bells of heaven peal.
Let us see The busy songsters’ ecstasy, And hear them pipe their songs of glee-- For all the day They seem to say, The soul is happy that is free!
Love, divine, Art thou not Spring, and give me wine To quaff? For in this heart of mine A new life grows, And yields a rose For thee--the fragrance of it thine!
Hebe, dear, The message of this Spring day hear; See, love, the glory of the year: The Spring is free, So Summer be The season in which joy is clear!
In blue, cerise, and grey, A dainty, bonnie thing-- No mortal--just a fay, From elfin glades astray, With joys the swallows bring When they come back with spring.