 | Fugitive poetry |  |
90
A PORTRAIT.
She's beautiful! Her raven curls
Have broken hearts in envious girls—
And then they sleep in contrast so,
Like raven feathers upon snow,
And bathe her neck—and shade the bright
Dark eye from which they catch the light,
As if their graceful loops were made
To keep that glorious eye in shade,
And holier make its tranquil spell,
Like waters in a shaded well.
Have broken hearts in envious girls—
And then they sleep in contrast so,
Like raven feathers upon snow,
And bathe her neck—and shade the bright
Dark eye from which they catch the light,
As if their graceful loops were made
To keep that glorious eye in shade,
And holier make its tranquil spell,
Like waters in a shaded well.
I cannot rhyme about that eye—
I've match'd it with a midnight sky—
I've said 'twas deep, and dark, and wild,
Expressive, liquid, witching, mild—
But the jewell'd star, and the living air
Have nothing in them half so fair.
I've match'd it with a midnight sky—
I've said 'twas deep, and dark, and wild,
Expressive, liquid, witching, mild—
But the jewell'd star, and the living air
Have nothing in them half so fair.
She's noble—noble—one to keep
Embalm'd for dreams of fever'd sleep—
An eye for nature—taste refin'd,
Perception swift, and ballanc'd mind,—
And more than all, a gift of thought
To such a spirit-fineness wrought,
That on my ear her language fell,
As if each word dissolv'd a spell.
Embalm'd for dreams of fever'd sleep—
An eye for nature—taste refin'd,
Perception swift, and ballanc'd mind,—
And more than all, a gift of thought
To such a spirit-fineness wrought,
That on my ear her language fell,
As if each word dissolv'd a spell.
91
Yet I half hate her. She has all
That would ensure an angel's fall—
But there's a cool collected look,
As if her pulses beat by book—
A measure'd tone, a cold reply,
A management of voice and eye,
A calm, possess'd, authentic air,
That leaves a doubt of softness there,
'Till—look and worship as I may—
My fever'd thoughts will pass away.
That would ensure an angel's fall—
But there's a cool collected look,
As if her pulses beat by book—
A measure'd tone, a cold reply,
A management of voice and eye,
A calm, possess'd, authentic air,
That leaves a doubt of softness there,
'Till—look and worship as I may—
My fever'd thoughts will pass away.
And when she lifts her fringing lashes,
And her dark eye like star-light flashes—
And when she plays her quiet wile
Of that calm look, and measur'd smile,
I go away like one who's heard
In some fine scene the prompter's word,
And make a vow to break her chain,
And keep it—till we meet again.
And her dark eye like star-light flashes—
And when she plays her quiet wile
Of that calm look, and measur'd smile,
I go away like one who's heard
In some fine scene the prompter's word,
And make a vow to break her chain,
And keep it—till we meet again.
| Fugitive poetry | |