To a Polish Lady.
Daughter of an enslaved land, angel through love, witch through
fancy, child by faith, aged by experience, man in brain, woman in
heart, giant by hope, mother through sorrows, poet in thy dreams,
—to thee belongs this book, in which thy love, thy fancy, thy
experience, thy sorrow, thy hope, thy dreams, are the warp through
which is shot a woof less brilliant than the poesy of thy soul,
whose expression, when it shines upon thy countenance, is, to
those who love thee, what the characters of a lost language are to
scholars.
De Balzac.
