 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
LITTLE ANNA'S PICTURE.
'Tis but a pencil-sketch,—yet lovely still,And true as lovely! the rich mouth is there,
The simple parting of the sun-brown hair,
The large and lustrous eyes, all eloquent
With their unchildlike, earnest look of thought,
And the transparent fairness of the forehead!
It is all Anna,—save the faint rose-shade
That trembles on her cheek, but in her lips
Deepens to crimson,—and the tinge of gold,
Revelling like a sunbeam 'mid her hair,
While in those eyes, which wear the selfsame hue
Of glossy brown, it melts to tender smiles!
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For in their contrast, half her beauty lies;—
The chestnut richness of her drooping lash,
Lying like silk upon that dimpled cheek,
Makes the warm rose-tint softer with its shade.
I would this little sketch those colours wore;
But I've another portrait of the child,
Wrought by a hand more powerful and true,—
A portrait that will never fade, a hand
Whose angel-skill is perfect and undying;
There the brown hair on blue-veined temples rests,
Just as it did on Anna's; the sweet lips
Are as like hers, as hers are like a rose-bud;
And the clear, beaming eyes, the colour wear
With which her own are radiant!—It is true,—
For long ago, before our darling left us,
Love drew her picture “in my heart of heart,”
And Memory preserves it beautiful!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |