 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
ALMOST AN ANGEL.
I cannot say she hath an angel's face,—I never saw an angel; but it seems
She is akin to those bright forms of grace
Which sometimes mingle in our holiest dreams,
There is no worldliness in those soft eyes
Whose radiance might all other orbs eclipse,—
No trace of passion on the fair brow lies,
No evil line around the sweet red lips.
The pure cheek never hath had cause to blush,
Therefore 't is hueless as a lily leaf,
Save when across its snow, a sudden flush
Flits, as she speaks, with coloring faint and brief,
Ah! there's enough of angelhood in thee
To make a heaven on earth for some one,—but—not me!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |