 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
128
A PORTRAIT.
She is all angles,—and her thin hair staysTortured in many a quaint elaborate crook,—
Just where 't is placed; and in the hottest days
Her sharp face has a pinched, half-frozen look;
The “milk of human kindness” in her heart
Soured before the cream rose;—probably
'T was the reflection of her face, in part,
Which caused the metamorphosis,—ah, me,
Tartaric acid never was so tart
As heart and face combined are wont to be!
Her voice is audible vinegar, boiled down,
And oh, if that's a smile, heaven save me from her frown!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |