Lucile By Owen Meredith [i.e. E. R. B. Lytton] |
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XVII.
She spoke not; but Alfred could feelThe light hand and arm, that upon him reposed,
Thrill and tremble. Those dark eyes of hers were half closed;
But, under their languid mysterious fringe,
A passionate softness was beaming. One tinge
Of faint inward fire flush'd transparently through
The delicate, pallid, and pure olive hue
Of the cheek, half averted and droop'd. The rich bosom
Heaved, as when in the heart of a ruffled rose blossom
A bee is imprison'd, and struggles.
| Lucile | |