 | English Roses |  |
82
ANGELICA.
She is clothed in the beauty of night,
She is glad with the splendour of day,
And more sweet than the visions of sight
Is the happiness winging her way,
In the music of notion;
She has stolen the stars for her eyes
And the darkness was twined in her hair,
While the glory of unrisen skies
On her forehead proclaims she is fair,
As the heart of devotion;
And the earth were not finished or meet,
Without her and the pulse of her feet.
She is glad with the splendour of day,
And more sweet than the visions of sight
Is the happiness winging her way,
In the music of notion;
She has stolen the stars for her eyes
And the darkness was twined in her hair,
While the glory of unrisen skies
On her forehead proclaims she is fair,
As the heart of devotion;
And the earth were not finished or meet,
Without her and the pulse of her feet.
She is blossom of silence and song,
And the breath of the fortunate climes
To which perfumes of passion belong,
And her lips are the rosiest rhymes—
Never dreamed by a poet;
And the dew of the morning is hers,
With the softness of evening and hush
'Twixt the sun and the moon which defers
Its delight with a maidenly blush,
And departs ere we know it;
So we cannot be sure of her spell,
But whatever it be it is well.
And the breath of the fortunate climes
To which perfumes of passion belong,
And her lips are the rosiest rhymes—
Never dreamed by a poet;
And the dew of the morning is hers,
With the softness of evening and hush
'Twixt the sun and the moon which defers
Its delight with a maidenly blush,
And departs ere we know it;
So we cannot be sure of her spell,
But whatever it be it is well.
On an untravelled path doth she tread
In her virginal vesture and grace,
And the aureole haunting her head
Sheds a shine on the dreariest place,
Like a promise of blessing;
Nothing common or little she seeks,
But a virtue is hid in her hand,
And the sunrise that reddens her cheeks
Had no dawn in our lowlier land,
And is good beyond guessing;
For her soul is an altar in flame,
Burning white with the beauty of shame.
In her virginal vesture and grace,
And the aureole haunting her head
Sheds a shine on the dreariest place,
Like a promise of blessing;
Nothing common or little she seeks,
But a virtue is hid in her hand,
And the sunrise that reddens her cheeks
Had no dawn in our lowlier land,
And is good beyond guessing;
For her soul is an altar in flame,
Burning white with the beauty of shame.
83
When I pass to her presence, I feel
In a shrine where the shadow is more
Than the noontide, and humbly would kneel
As a penitent come to adore,
Who yet dares not from wonder;
And the sense of a separate lot,
With a life above earthlier law
Haloed round by a charm without spot,
Fills my breast till the gateways of awe
To their depths cleave asunder;
Till I see how Creation was done,
And the angel and human are one.
In a shrine where the shadow is more
Than the noontide, and humbly would kneel
As a penitent come to adore,
Who yet dares not from wonder;
And the sense of a separate lot,
With a life above earthlier law
Haloed round by a charm without spot,
Fills my breast till the gateways of awe
To their depths cleave asunder;
Till I see how Creation was done,
And the angel and human are one.
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