To The Same

Töchterchenlein, by whom the least became The greatest title of dear Daughterhood, Who hast not laid down life, nor spilled thy blood For me, but throbbed them thro' the living frame Of duteous days less different than the same, Yet not too much the same to be construed In number, that still multiplied thy good, And, by the figure of a changing name For changeless love, helped my weak utterance Of thy desert; as step by step we climb A height, or by a thousand measure one: I verse this Poetry which thou hast done, As he who gazing on a rhythmic dance Finds even his common speech a little keep the time.