And her face is lily-clear,
Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.
Oval cheeks encolored faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air:
And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.
Face and figure of a child,—
Though too calm, you think, and tender,
For the childhood you would lend her.
Yet child-simple, undefiled,
Frank, obedient, waiting still
On the turnings of your will.
Moving light, as all young things,
As young birds, or early wheat
When the wind blows over it.
Only, free from flutterings
Of loud mirth that scorneth measure—
Taking love for her chief pleasure.
Choosing pleasures, for the rest,
Which come softly—just as she,
When she nestles at your knee.
Quiet talk she liketh best,
In a bower of gentle looks,—
Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
Which yet feels (you feel) the sun.