 | Orta-undis, and other poems |  |
3
TO MY VERY DEAR SISTER.
No need is there of being wise
To read the love within thine eyes;
Thy love thou canst not all disguise.
To read the love within thine eyes;
Thy love thou canst not all disguise.
Thy hair is brown, thy eyes are gray,
And many tender things they say;
(Sweet eyes, thus speak to me alway!)
And many tender things they say;
(Sweet eyes, thus speak to me alway!)
Thy forehead white beneath its veins
Soft throbbing, secret wealth contains,
Fair fruit of fertilizing rains.
Soft throbbing, secret wealth contains,
Fair fruit of fertilizing rains.
For often, lying in the shade,
Thy tresses loosened from their braid,
An open book before thee laid;
Thy tresses loosened from their braid,
An open book before thee laid;
4
Thou readest many wondrous things
That give unto thy spirit wings;
And dreamy old imaginings.
That give unto thy spirit wings;
And dreamy old imaginings.
But more than tress or witching eyes,
Or all that therein hidden lies,
Thy love I infinitely prize.
Or all that therein hidden lies,
Thy love I infinitely prize.
Thy love is like a joyous rill
That rippling down life's rugged hill,
The crevices with gold-dust fill.
That rippling down life's rugged hill,
The crevices with gold-dust fill.
Let others covet gold:—for me,
In thy great love great wealth I see,
Nor more endowed I care to be.
In thy great love great wealth I see,
Nor more endowed I care to be.
1846.
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