TO A PICTURE.
You pretty face, upon my wall,
Enshrined in glass and oak and gold,
Most charming deaf-mute—and withal
My confidante—whate'er befall,
My trust in you will rest untold,
You pretty face!
What do they call you? Is it "Spring"?
Or "Blossoms"? or "The Coming Race"?—
It matters not in any case,
Your name may be just anything
For all I care, you pretty face.
You bring me back old scenes anew,
You've something of my lady's grace,
Of her sweet features just a trace,
And so I have re-christened you—
I won't say what—you pretty face!
I have no portrait to recall
The sweetest of all maids to me,
Nor have I need of one at all,
Yet, seeing you upon my wall,
By pleasing "make-believe" I see
Her pretty face!