WHEN my Clorinda walks in white Unto her Confirmation Rite, What sinless dove can show to heaven A purer sight? Beneath a lawn, translucent crown Her lovely curls conceal their brown; Her wanton eyes are fastened, even, Demurely down. And that delicious mouth of rose No words, no smile, may discompose: All of her feels the approaching awe, And silent grows. Come, then, Thou noiseless Spirit, and res, Here, where she waits Thee for her Guest, Pass not, but sweetly onward draw, Till heaven's possessed! |