A sadness lingers round her lips,
A shadow ever haunts her eyes;
Like dusky pools are they on which
The mystery of the moonlight lies.
Her voice is sweet, but grave in tone,
No ring hath it of joyous mirth;
Yet somehow when she speaks, methinks
A benediction falls on earth.
A sense of rest her presence brings,
She moves with such a quiet grace;
And ’tis the pitying soul within
Makes tender twilight of her face.
Methinks the Virgin-mother must
Have looked like this when to her breast
The Babe, who was to save a world,
With mingled joy and pain she pressed.
DOROTHY
Dorothy is debonair;
Little count hath she or care;
All her gold is in her hair.
And the freshness of the Spring
Round this old world seems to cling
When you hear her laugh or sing.
On her sunny way she goes;
Much she wonders—little knows,
Love’s as yet a folded rose.
All her smiles in dimples die;
Glad is she, nor knows she why:
Just to live is ecstasy!
Lightly lie the chains, methinks,
That have daisies for their links;
Youth’s the fount where Pleasure drinks.