The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth With Sixteen Illustrations. By Philip Gilbert Hamerton |
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MARIAN. |
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 | The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth |  |
203
MARIAN.
“Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,
Not of the stains of her.”
—Thomas Hood.
Gently and humanly,
Not of the stains of her.”
—Thomas Hood.
She wanders nightly through a world of streets;
She gives a dreary smile to those she meets,
Which is not of the heart.
Her clothes are tasteful, but most comfortless;
The cold night wind despises her thin dress;
She plays the bitter part
Of happy love in hate and weariness.
She gives a dreary smile to those she meets,
Which is not of the heart.
Her clothes are tasteful, but most comfortless;
The cold night wind despises her thin dress;
She plays the bitter part
Of happy love in hate and weariness.
Her wavy hair is stiff with bandoline,
And her pale, powdered forehead shows between,
Like marble dead and white;
Her cheek has lost its bloom, but in her eyes
The colour darkens as the lustre dies;
And, beautiful as night,
In each deep orb a weary spirit lies.
And her pale, powdered forehead shows between,
Like marble dead and white;
Her cheek has lost its bloom, but in her eyes
The colour darkens as the lustre dies;
And, beautiful as night,
In each deep orb a weary spirit lies.
204
She speaks with such a sad and gentle voice
Of her sad life that is not hers from choice,
And of her death as near,
That Virtue would not feel herself secure
To think that souls so delicate and pure
Could live and be sincere
In hating all the guilt that they endure.
Of her sad life that is not hers from choice,
And of her death as near,
That Virtue would not feel herself secure
To think that souls so delicate and pure
Could live and be sincere
In hating all the guilt that they endure.
She passes down long avenues of lamps,
Robed like a virgin chastely; but the damps
Of many winter nights
Have their effect, and she has closely prest
Her white-gloved hands upon her little breast,
And walks beneath the lights,
Caressing Death—by him in turn carest.
Robed like a virgin chastely; but the damps
Of many winter nights
Have their effect, and she has closely prest
Her white-gloved hands upon her little breast,
And walks beneath the lights,
Caressing Death—by him in turn carest.
| The Isles of Loch Awe and Other Poems of my Youth | |