 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
TO FRANCESCA.
O who thy brow's sweet pensiveness can view,
Thy blue eye's deep and thrilling tenderness,
Thy witching mouth, thy young cheek's tender hue,
Nor feel emotions he may not express.
Thy blue eye's deep and thrilling tenderness,
Thy witching mouth, thy young cheek's tender hue,
Nor feel emotions he may not express.
Thine is not brilliant beauty; there may be
Forms which can boast of more majestic grace
And brighter cheeks, but none can ever see
Such pure, pale softness in another face.
Forms which can boast of more majestic grace
And brighter cheeks, but none can ever see
Such pure, pale softness in another face.
It is the mind that in each feature gleams,
The feeling that each gentle glance displays,
The heart as pure as infancy's young dreams,—
They are more sweet than beauty's brightest rays.
The feeling that each gentle glance displays,
The heart as pure as infancy's young dreams,—
They are more sweet than beauty's brightest rays.
Yet I have seen that brow with grief o'ercast,
And those eyes dimmed with sorrow's bitter tears—
Ah! even from thee is pleasure fleeting fast?
Art thou, too, doomed to sad and lonely years?
And those eyes dimmed with sorrow's bitter tears—
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Art thou, too, doomed to sad and lonely years?
O! may the task to soothe thy woes be mine;
And though the brilliant flowers of joy be dead,
Yet some pale buds of hope I yet may twine,
Their gentle fragrance o'er thy heart to shed.
And though the brilliant flowers of joy be dead,
Yet some pale buds of hope I yet may twine,
Their gentle fragrance o'er thy heart to shed.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |