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,
Who records this maid of bliss?
I, who love her every act.
Greater myst’ry yet is this:
Hebe is a splendid fact.