The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poor was the girl, yet still to grief unknown,
Save when a jagged stone she careless pressed,
Or trod on humble-bee, withouten shoon,
Or thorn projecting pierced her sun burnt breast
Or tore the ringlets from her brow away.
Which after lined the active robin's nest,
Who sang for her a more melodious lay.
What though those tangled locks might half disguise
The speaking lustre of her soul-full eyes!
What though were darkly stained her childish brow;
No inward pang its form of grace had riven;
And though its hue be fairer, softer, now,
Oh, doth it turn as innocent to Heaven!
Doth it now bend in prayer as sure to be forgiven!