The Poet’s Picture

THE pent-up passion of her soul
    Deepens the pallor of her face,
Against her throbbing heart the whole
    Wide sorrow of the world finds place,
    And deep compassion and love’s grace.

The forehead ‘neath the cloudy hair
    Is like a child’s—so pure and white—
Sweet words have curved the rose-lips fair—
    And in the wistful eyes a flight
    Of fluctuant dreams pass, day and night.

Frail girl in whom God’s glories meet,
    Why was she so divinely made ?
Surely the angels, when complete
    Her radiant spirit stood arrayed
    In such fair flesh, felt half afraid !

                                                The

The dust of earthly days and years
    Scarce dims her delicate loveliness—
Only the eyelids, tired of tears,
    Droop low—their flower-like pallidness
    Bruised faintly by pain’s bitterness.

Only her hands, like ivory,
    Are stained a little by the sun,
And roughed with constant use—for she
    Is careless of their beauty won
    From dawn of life so easily.

Alas ! that her slim feet should tread
    The world’s uneven stony ways !
That she should know dull cares and dread—
    Long lonely nights and sordid days,
    Being so fashioned for love’s praise.

Lest she should sin or faint from fear,
    Let one swift angel heed my prayer,
And straight descending to this sphere
    Spread wide wings o’er her everywhere,—
    Lest she should fall—who is so dear !