 | Mystic Trees |  |
90
SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE
It is the brows, the infinite, soft confusingOf wave on wave and lovely current there;
It is the brows, the marge of the soft hair
In reedy level; or it is the eyes
Where plumes of sea-birds wrangle with the skies;
It is the mouth where bitter shadow lies,
Where in the twilight there are nymphs that mourn
As at the birth of Christ and grow forlorn—
O face, take heed what freedom you are losing!
This cowl is as a cage
For such soft passion's rage;
And, when the temperance of youth is gone,
You will be terrible to look upon.
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