Made From A Fetter Of Bonnivard, The Prisoner Of Chillon; The Handle Of Wood From The Frigate Constitution, And Bound With A Circlet Of Gold, Inset With Three Precious Stones From Siberia, Ceylon, And Maine. I Thought This Pen Would Arise From The Casket Where It Lies-- Of Itself Would Arise And Write My Thanks And My Surprise. When You Gave It Me Under The Pines, I Dreamed These Gems From The Mines Of Siberia, Ceylon, And Maine Would Glimmer As Thoughts In The Lines; That This Iron Link From The Chain Of Bonnivard Might Retain Some Verse Of The Poet Who Sang Of The Prisoner And His Pain; That This Wood From The Frigate'S Mast Might Write Me A Rhyme At Last, As It Used To Write On The Sky The Song Of The Sea And The Blast. But Motionless As I Wait, Like A Bishop Lying In State Lies The Pen, With Its Mitre Of Gold, And Its Jewels Inviolate. Then Must I Speak, And Say That The Light Of That Summer Day In The Garden Under The Pines Shall Not Fade And Pass Away. I Shall See You Standing There, Caressed By The Fragrant Air, With The Shadow On Your Face, And The Sunshine On Your Hair. I Shall Hear The Sweet Low Tone Of A Voice Before Unknown, Saying, "This Is From Me To You-- From Me, And To You Alone." And In Words Not Idle And Vain I Shall Answer And Thank You Again For The Gift, And The Grace Of The Gift, O Beautiful Helen Of Maine! And Forever This Gift Will Be As A Blessing From You To Me, As A Drop Of The Dew Of Your Youth On The Leaves Of An Aged Tree.