PORTRAIT D'UNE JEUNE FEMME INCONNUE,
GALERIE DE FLORENCE.
I saw a picture in a gallery: Go where I will, it still abides with me. The hair rich brown, one lovely golden tress Strayed from the braid and touched the loveliness Of the fair neck, so smooth, so white, so young, It shamed the pearls a prince's hand had strung. The dress is white, with here and there a gleam Of amber brilliant, sunlight on a stream! And hanging on her arm, a scarf; the thing About that glorious head and neck to fling, Protecting from the night, scarlet and black and gold, And gems are woven in each gleaming fold. The picture has that gracious air which tells The hand that painted it was Raphael's. They know she's beautiful, and know no more. Thus questioned I, as many did before: "Why art thou sad, thou delicate, proud face? Thou art a Dame of bright and cheerful race, Thy fortunes grand, thy home this Florence fair. Does an unworthy heart thy palace share? Or with a soft caprice dost turn from joy, And play with sorrow as a costly toy? Or has thy page forgotten, or done worse— Failed he to find the fond expected verse Thy lover promised thee? I know not why I linger near thee, beautiful and sad, Yet with such sorrow, who would have thee glad?" (Is she not gifted with the anointed eye That sees the trouble of the passer-by?) "Is thine that great, that tender sympathy That calls all heart-aches nearer unto thee? Or a great soul with aspirations rife, Feeling the insufficiency of this our life? Thou hast attraction of a grander tone, Some charm more subtle e'en than beauty's own! "Though woman throws no greater lure than this, The lip regretful which we fain would kiss, The eye made softer by the unfallen tear, And sunlight brighter for the shadow near. Why do I ask? will woman ever tell The secret of the charm that fits her well?" She did not answer, sweet, mysterious Dame. I left her sadly, locked in gilded frame.
M. E. W. S.