She had a sweetly spiritual face,
Touched with a noble, stately grace,
Poetic heritage of race.
Her form was graceful, slim and sweet,
Her frock was exquisitely neat,
With airy tread she paced the street.
She seemed some fantasy of dream,
A flash of loveliness supreme,
A poet's visionary gleam.
And yet she was of mortal birth,
A lovely child of lovely earth,
For kisses made and joy and mirth.
Sweet whirling thoughts my bosom throng,
To link her life with mine I long,
And shrine her in immortal song.
I steal another glance—and lo!
Dread shudders through my being flow,
My veins are filled with liquid snow.
Another form beside her walks,
Of servants and expenses talks,
Her nose is not unlike a hawk's.
Her face is plump, her figure fat,
She's prose embodied, stout gone flat,—
A comfortable Persian cat.
Her life is full of petty fuss,
She wobbles like an omnibus,
And yet it was not always thus.
Alas for perishable grace!
How unmistakably I trace
The daughter's in the mother's face.