I THOUGHT you happy, yet when once you turned Your eyes upon me, something prisoned there Shone for a moment, as if half aware That I might know for what your spirit yearned. You were as fair as summer hours, I learned, And like a butterfly that drifts on air; But they who told me never saw the flare Of your desire, that clear and sudden burned. Oh tell me what becomes of lovely things Prisoned behind the beauty they possess? Do they escape at last, and shed their dress Of splendid color, and their wondrous wings? Or die of longing, letting their disguise Live as a flame for beauty-craving eyes? |