 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
95
SIXTEEN AND SIXTY.
SIXTEEN.
Her form,—oh! you might muse till night,
And never image aught so bright,
So sweet,—so delicately slight,—
As that half-girlish form,
Which seemed just born for summer hours,
For love and kindness, smiles and flowers,—
Unfit for cloud or storm!
And never image aught so bright,
So sweet,—so delicately slight,—
As that half-girlish form,
Which seemed just born for summer hours,
For love and kindness, smiles and flowers,—
Unfit for cloud or storm!
Her forehead fair, as moonlight fair,
Half glancing 'neath her graceful hair,
Look'd like a shrine some angel there
For holy thought had won;
Her cheeks, where sixteen summers played,
Seem'd lilies that had lived in shade,
And never seen the sun:
Half glancing 'neath her graceful hair,
Look'd like a shrine some angel there
For holy thought had won;
Her cheeks, where sixteen summers played,
Seem'd lilies that had lived in shade,
And never seen the sun:
96
And yet not pale,—a lingering ray
Of day-break in the month of May,
Or rose leaf that had lost its way,
Flushed through that snowy skin;
And, as each hue would nectar sip,
Ran dimpling to the cherry lip,
That clos'd the heaven within!
Of day-break in the month of May,
Or rose leaf that had lost its way,
Flushed through that snowy skin;
And, as each hue would nectar sip,
Ran dimpling to the cherry lip,
That clos'd the heaven within!
SIXTY.
Her form,—'twas like a wintry day,
But cheerful still, as if a ray
Of heaven lit those temples grey,
Where change would still encroach;
Yet even Age had touched her face
With something of a tender grace,
And soften'd Time's approach!
But cheerful still, as if a ray
Of heaven lit those temples grey,
Where change would still encroach;
Yet even Age had touched her face
With something of a tender grace,
And soften'd Time's approach!
Her brow,—the spirit was not there
That first illum'd her forehead fair,
But something yet, one could not spare,
Like beauty did remain,
And could a kindred charm impart,
As dear, as sacred to the heart,
As in her beauty's reign!
That first illum'd her forehead fair,
But something yet, one could not spare,
Like beauty did remain,
And could a kindred charm impart,
As dear, as sacred to the heart,
As in her beauty's reign!
97
For oh! let but the heart be kind,
Let beauty linger in the mind,
And even Age appears refined,—
Age even can delight!
Till Life, like Hope's departing star,
Dies on the breast of heaven afar,
And takes an angel's flight!
Let beauty linger in the mind,
And even Age appears refined,—
Age even can delight!
Till Life, like Hope's departing star,
Dies on the breast of heaven afar,
And takes an angel's flight!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |