 | Poems by George P. Morris |  |
116
THE MINIATURE.
William was holding in his hand
The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:—he gazed
Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
To view the artist's skill.
The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:—he gazed
Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
To view the artist's skill.
“This picture is yourself, dear Jane—
'Tis drawn to nature true:
I 've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you.”
“And has it kissed you back, my dear?”
“Why—no—my love,” said he.
“Then, William, it is very clear
'T is not at all like me!”
'Tis drawn to nature true:
I 've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
It is so much like you.”
“And has it kissed you back, my dear?”
“Why—no—my love,” said he.
“Then, William, it is very clear
'T is not at all like me!”
| Poems by George P. Morris | |