The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed With a Memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge. Fourth Edition. In Two Volumes |
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THE PORTRAIT. |
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 | The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
240
THE PORTRAIT.
Oh yes! these lips are very fair,
Half lifted to the sky,
As if they breathed an angel's prayer
Mixed with a mortal's sigh;
But theirs is not the song that flings
O'er evening's still imaginings
Its cherished witchery;
No, these are not the lips whose tone
Sad Memory has made her own.
Half lifted to the sky,
As if they breathed an angel's prayer
Mixed with a mortal's sigh;
But theirs is not the song that flings
O'er evening's still imaginings
Its cherished witchery;
No, these are not the lips whose tone
Sad Memory has made her own.
And these long curls of dazzling brown
In many a fairy wreath
Float brightly, beautifully, down
Upon the brow beneath;
But these are not the locks of jet
For which I sought the violet
On that remembered heath;
No, these are not the locks that gleam
Around me in my moonlight dream.
In many a fairy wreath
Float brightly, beautifully, down
Upon the brow beneath;
But these are not the locks of jet
For which I sought the violet
On that remembered heath;
No, these are not the locks that gleam
Around me in my moonlight dream.
241
And these blue eyes—a very saint
Might envy their pure rays—
Are such as limners learn to paint,
And poets long to praise;
But theirs is not the speaking glance
On which, in all its young romance,
My spirit loves to gaze;
No, these are not the eyes that shine,
Like never-setting stars, on mine.
Might envy their pure rays—
Are such as limners learn to paint,
And poets long to praise;
But theirs is not the speaking glance
On which, in all its young romance,
My spirit loves to gaze;
No, these are not the eyes that shine,
Like never-setting stars, on mine.
By those sweet songs I hear to-night,
Those black locks on the brow,
And those dark eyes, whose living light
Is beaming o'er me now,
I worship nought but what thou art!
Let all that was—decay—depart,
I care not when or how;
And fairer far these hues may be,—
They seem not half so fair to me!
Those black locks on the brow,
And those dark eyes, whose living light
Is beaming o'er me now,
I worship nought but what thou art!
Let all that was—decay—depart,
I care not when or how;
And fairer far these hues may be,—
They seem not half so fair to me!
| The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |