And her smile it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more far
Than our common jestings are.
And if any poet knew her,
He would sing of her with falls
Used in lovely madrigals.
And if any painter drew her,
He would paint her unaware
With a halo round her hair.
And if reader read the poem,
He would whisper—"You have done a
Consecrated little Una!"
And a dreamer (did you show him
That same picture) would exclaim,
"'Tis my angel, with a name!"
And a stranger,—when he sees her
In the street even—smileth stilly,
Just as you would at a lily.
And all voices that address her,
Soften, sleeken every word,
As if speaking to a bird.
And all fancies yearn to cover
The hard earth, whereon she passes,
With the thymy-scented grasses.
And all hearts do pray, "God love her!"
Ay and always, in good sooth,
We may all be sure HE DOTH.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]