 | Mundi et Cordis |  |
198
XI. THE WRITTEN PORTRAIT.
Were I a Painter, I would fix thee now!—Thy dark hair, with its thick-entangled curls,
Hanging like silken clouds by either brow;
Thy forehead peering o'er, more white than pearls;
Thine eyes, with a bright glory just ascended
From the Elysium of thy beating heart;
Thy cheeks, deep-flush'd with roses, all unblended
With the pale lily, whose demurer art
Plays round thy lips, whose exquisite carnation
Closes and opes, as mirth's sweet inspiration
Comes o'er them, like a zephyr whose soft wing
With freshening dew is laden—Lo! 'tis traced:
Thy picture glows in words; a colouring
Whose hues are fire—And shall they be effaced?
| Mundi et Cordis | |