 | Words by the Wayside |  |
58
Loveliness In Miniature
Little maiden, fairy May
Fairer than all song can say,
Buoyant as the breeze of spring,
Blithe as butterflies a-wing,
Pure and fine the soul must be
That can thus ethereally,
And in earthly mould, express
All its own unearthliness.
Such the form sweet Echo had
Ere Narcissus left her sad,
Or young Eos, seen afar
As she paled the morning star.
Yet no transitory gleam
Like to these art thou, no dream,
Vision of fantastic birth,
But a very child of earth,
Hands and lips made humanly
Warm to touch and real to see,
Beyond fancy's wildest guess
Miniature of loveliness.
Fairer than all song can say,
Buoyant as the breeze of spring,
Blithe as butterflies a-wing,
Pure and fine the soul must be
That can thus ethereally,
And in earthly mould, express
All its own unearthliness.
Such the form sweet Echo had
Ere Narcissus left her sad,
Or young Eos, seen afar
As she paled the morning star.
Yet no transitory gleam
Like to these art thou, no dream,
Vision of fantastic birth,
But a very child of earth,
Hands and lips made humanly
Warm to touch and real to see,
Beyond fancy's wildest guess
Miniature of loveliness.
Like the sudden smiles that flit
(Spring comes back to think of it)
O'er the face of April, seen
But to vanish and have been,
So the swift vicissitude
Of each gay or pensive mood.
Sweet at rest thou art, and sweet
Roving, sweetest when the feet,
That will neither walk nor stay,
Dance adown the common way.
But how paint the winsome grace
Of the flower that is thy face—
With what beauty, say, begin?
Dainty cheek, or dimpled chin?
Little mouth we must not miss,
One wild rose-bud raised to kiss,
Nor the pearly seeds that show
When the lips' red petals blow.
Then the slender length, and slim
Elasticity of limb,
And white throat, and hardly guessed
Ripple of the girlish breast,
Fraught with dimly understood
Mysteries of maidenhood,
And dark hair that overlies
The wide wonder of thine eyes
Azure-orbed, divinely shy,
Radiant of eternity!
(Spring comes back to think of it)
O'er the face of April, seen
But to vanish and have been,
So the swift vicissitude
Of each gay or pensive mood.
Sweet at rest thou art, and sweet
Roving, sweetest when the feet,
That will neither walk nor stay,
Dance adown the common way.
But how paint the winsome grace
59
With what beauty, say, begin?
Dainty cheek, or dimpled chin?
Little mouth we must not miss,
One wild rose-bud raised to kiss,
Nor the pearly seeds that show
When the lips' red petals blow.
Then the slender length, and slim
Elasticity of limb,
And white throat, and hardly guessed
Ripple of the girlish breast,
Fraught with dimly understood
Mysteries of maidenhood,
And dark hair that overlies
The wide wonder of thine eyes
Azure-orbed, divinely shy,
Radiant of eternity!
Love must come when thou art older,
Or the hearts of men grow colder,
And their eyes too gross to see:
Then may life's felicity
Crown thee! but as now thou art
The whole world must lose its heart,
Child-enchantress, to thy lure,
Loveliness in miniature!
Or the hearts of men grow colder,
And their eyes too gross to see:
Then may life's felicity
Crown thee! but as now thou art
The whole world must lose its heart,
Child-enchantress, to thy lure,
Loveliness in miniature!
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