 | Letters of Laura D'Auverne |  |
147
MAIDEN BEAUTY.
Her hand's like a lily,—
But just at the tip
It hath stolen a tint
Like the hue of her lip!
Her breath's like the morning,
When hyacinths blow;
Her feet leave a blessing
Wherever they go!
But just at the tip
It hath stolen a tint
Like the hue of her lip!
Her breath's like the morning,
When hyacinths blow;
Her feet leave a blessing
Wherever they go!
For each one she's something
To comfort or cheer;
When her purse fails her wishes,
She gives them a tear!
E'en the sound of her step
Seems to bring them relief;
And they bless that sweet face
Which speaks hope 'mid their grief!
To comfort or cheer;
When her purse fails her wishes,
She gives them a tear!
E'en the sound of her step
Seems to bring them relief;
And they bless that sweet face
Which speaks hope 'mid their grief!
148
Her mouth's like a rose-bud,
Just budding half through,
When it opens at morn
Amidst fragrance and dew;
And her heart is a dwelling
Where angels might rest,
And forget their own heaven
In that of her breast!
Just budding half through,
When it opens at morn
Amidst fragrance and dew;
And her heart is a dwelling
Where angels might rest,
And forget their own heaven
In that of her breast!
| Letters of Laura D'Auverne | |