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For her these lines are penned, whose luminous eyes,

Bright and expressive as the stars of Leda,

Shall find her own sweet name that, nestling, lies

Upon this page, enwrapped from every reader.

Search narrowly these words, which hold a treasure

Divine — a talisman — an amulet

That must be worn at heart. Search well the measure —

The words — the letters themselves. Do not forget

The smallest point, or you may lose your labor.

And yet there is in this no Gordian knot,

Which one might not undo without a sabre.

If one could merely comprehend the plot

Upon the open page, on which are peering

Such sweet eyes now, there lies, I say perdu,

A musical name, oft uttered in the hearing

Of poets, by poets — for the name is a poet’s, too,

In common sequence set, the letters lying,

Compose a sound delighting all to hear.

Ah, this you’d have no trouble in descrying,

Were you not something, of a dunce, my dear:

And now I leave these riddles to their seer.