XIII.
THE PORTRAIT.
1
The word of thy heart hath been broken—
I wear not thy sweet picture yet;
Though with fondness the promise was spoken
Which Love cannot speak—and forget.
2
'Tis false; thine adorer blasphemes:
For what could dull painter achieve
Of portrait so true as these dreams
Of our Past in the Present can weave?
3
In my spirit thy features are drawn:
Thy lips open crimsonly there;
And thine eyes shed their full moonlight dawn
Through the rich-floating clouds of thy hair.
4
The word of thy heart is fulfill'd;
Of thy promise the import is plain:
In my heart are thy features instill'd,
And thy form is all limn'd in my brain!
