 | Lucile |  |
IX.
Perhaps what so troubled him was, that the faceOn whose features he gazed had no more than a trace
Of the face his remembrance had imaged for years.
Yes! the face he remember'd was faded with tears:
Grief had famish'd the figure, and dimm'd the dark eyes,
And starved the pale lips, too acquainted with sighs.
And that tender, and gracious, and fond coquetterie
Of a woman who knows her least ribbon to be
Something dear to the lips that so warmly caress
Every sacred detail of her exquisite dress,
In the careless toilette of Lucile,—then too sad
To care aught to her changeable beauty to add,—
73
Alas! poor Lucile, in those weak days of yore,
Had neglected herself, never heeding, nor thinking
(While the blossom and bloom of her beauty were shrinking)
That sorrow can beautify only the heart—
Not the face—of a woman; and can but impart
Its endearment to one that hath suffer'd. In truth
Grief hath beauty for grief; but gay youth loves gay youth.
| Lucile | |