She is not fashioned to command, Nor once, for grace, in her is shown A form that peers the lily-wand, An air the lily's self might own; Not such her vaunt, tho' such enchant, Nay, make with joy the reason reel; 'Tis hers to bear a boon more rare, — A heart another's woe to feel. Nor hers the hair that beams afar Like streams of molten gold, an eye That twinkles like the little star Attends the virgin moon on high; Not such her vaunt, yet joy will haunt Whoe'er her gentle smile has viewed; That smile would light the gloom would blight A heart with lion-nerve endued. Not hers the golden tones that break Like music from the lips, the rare, The dancing dimple on the cheek Accorded to the fabled fair; Not such her vaunt — nay, pride might taunt Her with a lack of charms; yet oh! She's to the faint and weak a saint Ordained to bless this world below. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HEART'S FIRST WORD (2) by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE KISS by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR A UTILITARIAN VIEW OF THE MONITOR'S FIGHT by HERMAN MELVILLE A PRAYER by EDWARD ROWLAND SILL THE UNKNOWN GOD by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD ON THE STATUE OF CLEOPATRA, MADE INTO A FOUNTAIN BY LEO X by BALDASSARRE CASTIGLIONE SPRING PLOWING by BEULAH JACKSON CHARMLEY THE FATAL DREAM; OR, THE UNHAPPY FAVOURITE; AN ELEGY by EMANUEL COLLINS |