WHERE art thou, Mary, pure as fair, And fragrant as the balmy air, That, passing, steals upon its wing The varied perfumes of the spring? With tender bosom, white as snow; With auburn locks, that freely flow Upon thy marble neck; with cheeks On which the blush of morning breaks; Eyes, in whose pure and heavenly beams The radiance of enchantment seems; A voice, whose melting tones would still The madness of revenge from ill; A form of such a graceful mould, We scarce an earthly shape behold; A mind of so divine a fire As angels only could inspire! -- Where art thou, Mary? For the sod Is hallow'd where thy feet have trod; And every leaf that's touch'd by thee Is sanctified, sweet maid, to me. Where dost thou lean thy pensive head? Thy tears what tender tale can shed? Where dost thou stretch thy snowy arm? And with thy plaintive accents charm? But hold! that image through my frame Raises a wild tempestuous flame. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DOMESDAY BOOK: THE CONVENT by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE USES OF POETRY by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS REVELRY OF THE DYING by BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING WHEN JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME by PATRICK SARSFIELD GILMORE GREEK ARCHITECTURE by HERMAN MELVILLE THE MOCKING-BIRD by FRANK LEBBY STANTON |