 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON
When I bought you for a song,
Years ago—Lord knows how long!—
I was struck—I may be wrong—
By your features,
And—a something in your air
That I could n't quite compare
To my other plain or fair
Fellow-creatures.
Years ago—Lord knows how long!—
I was struck—I may be wrong—
By your features,
And—a something in your air
That I could n't quite compare
To my other plain or fair
Fellow-creatures.
In your simple, oval frame
You were not well known to fame,
But to me—'t was all the same—
Whoe'er drew you;
For your face I can't forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
Saw quite through you.
You were not well known to fame,
But to me—'t was all the same—
Whoe'er drew you;
For your face I can't forget,
Though I oftentimes regret
That, somehow, I never yet
Saw quite through you.
Yet each morning, when I rise,
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, you scrutinize
My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You 're the last thing I recall
With contentment.
I go first to greet your eyes;
And, in turn, you scrutinize
My presentment.
And when shades of evening fall,
As you hang upon my wall,
You 're the last thing I recall
With contentment.
416
It is weakness, yet I know
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
That I fingered.
That I never turned to go
Anywhere, for weal or woe,
But I lingered
For one parting, thrilling flash
From your eyes, to give that dash
To the curl of my mustache,
That I fingered.
If to some you may seem plain,
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain
From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
In expression.
And when people glance again
Where you hang, their lips refrain
From confession;
Yet they turn in stealth aside,
And I note, they try to hide
How much they are satisfied
In expression.
Other faces I have seen;
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
Done and dared for!
But our ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You 're the only one I ever
Really cared for!
Other forms have come between;
Other things I have, I ween,
Done and dared for!
But our ties they cannot sever,
And, though I should say it never,
You 're the only one I ever
Really cared for!
And you'll still be hanging there
When we 're both the worse for wear,
And the silver 's on my hair
And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!
When we 're both the worse for wear,
And the silver 's on my hair
And off your backing;
Yet my faith shall never pass
In my dear old shaving-glass,
Till my face and yours, alas!
Both are lacking!
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |