The spare professor, grave and bald, 
Began his paper. It was called, 
I think, "A Brief Historic Glance 
At Russia, Germany, and France." 
A glance, but to my best belief 
'T was almost anything but brief-- 
A wide survey, in which the earth 
Was seen before mankind had birth; 
Strange monsters basked them in the sun, 
Behemoth, armored glyptodon, 
And in the dawn's unpractised ray 
The transient dodo winged its way; 
Then, by degrees, through slit and slough, 
We reached Berlin--I don't know how. 
The good Professor's monotone 
Had turned me into senseless stone 
Instanter, but that near me sat 
Hypatia in her new spring hat, 
Blue-eyed, intent, with lips whose bloom 
Lighted the heavy-curtained room. 
Hypatia--ah, what lovely things 
Are fashioned out of eighteen springs! 
At first, in sums of this amount, 
The eighteen winters do not count. 
Just as my eyes were growing dim 
With heaviness, I saw that slim, 
Erect, elastic figure there, 
Like a pond-lily taking air. 
She looked so fresh, so wise, so neat, 
So altogether crisp and sweet, 
I quite forgot what Bismarck said, 
And why the Emperor shook his head, 
And how it was Von Moltke's frown 
Cost France another frontier town. 
The only facts I took away 
From the Professor's theme that day 
Were these: a forehead broad and low, 
Such as antique sculptures show; 
A chin to Greek perfection true; 
Eyes of Astarte's tender blue; 
A high complection without fleck 
Or flaw, and curls about her neck.