 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
88
SONNET.
She is not beautiful—but in her eyes
No common spirit shadows forth itself;
So mild, so quiet, so serenely wise,
Yet merry, as of any dainty elf
That dances on the turf by star-lit skies.
And such a friend she is—so good and true—
So free from envy, scorn, or prejudice;
She is as constant as high heaven is blue;
She seems like some most gentle, lustrous star,
Which men will love, because it dazzles not.
And though I wear away my life afar,
Still, in this mountainous and savage spot,
I think of her, as one who soothed my care,
And did her best to keep me from despair.
No common spirit shadows forth itself;
So mild, so quiet, so serenely wise,
Yet merry, as of any dainty elf
That dances on the turf by star-lit skies.
And such a friend she is—so good and true—
So free from envy, scorn, or prejudice;
She is as constant as high heaven is blue;
She seems like some most gentle, lustrous star,
Which men will love, because it dazzles not.
And though I wear away my life afar,
Still, in this mountainous and savage spot,
I think of her, as one who soothed my care,
And did her best to keep me from despair.
Valley of the Picuris, September 2, 1832.
| Prose sketches and poems | |