THE pink and black of silk and lace,
Flushed in the rosy-golden glow
Of lamplight on her lifted face;
Powder and wig, and pink and lace,
And those pathetic eyes of hers;
But all the London footlights know
The little plaintive smile that stirs
The shadow in those eyes of hers.
Outside, the dreary church-bell tolled,
The London Sunday faded slow;
Ah, what is this? what wings unfold
In this miraculous rose of gold?
AN ANGEL OF PERUGINO.
HAVE I not seen your face before
Where Perugino’s angels stand
In those calm circles, and adore
With singing throat and lifted hand?
So the pale hair lay crescent-wise,
About the placid forehead curled,
And the pale piety of eyes
Was as God’s peace upon the world.
And you, a simple child serene,
Wander upon your quiet way,
Nor know that any eyes have seen
The Umbrian halo crown the day.
AT FONTAINEBLEAU.
IT was a day of sun and rain,
Uncertain as a child’s quick moods;
And I shall never pass again
So blithe a day among the woods.
The forest knew you and was glad,
And laughed for very joy to know
Her child was with her; then, grown sad,
She wept, because her child must go.