 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
[I. I've noted oft, and not without surprise]
I 've noted oft, and not without surpriseHow true it is of each and every one,
That beauty dwelleth in the gazer's eyes
Rather than in the features gazed upon.
Now there's an impassioned swain across the street
Who sees such beauty in his Susan Jane,—
A dumpy damsel whom I often meet,
With freckled face, red curls, and speech ungain,
As charmed the painters of the olden time,
The grand old masters of a former age,
Inspiring their rare pencillings sublime
Till the mute canvas spoke;—and I'll engage
He dreams of angels harping heavenly strains,
And every angel's face and voice is Susan Jane's!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |