AT TWENTY-ONE
The rosy hills of her high breasts,
Whereon, like misty morning, rests
The breathing lace; her auburn hair,
Wherein, a star-point sparkling there,
One jewel burns: her eyes, that keep
Recorded dreams of love and sleep:
Her mouth, with whose comparison
The richest rose were poor and wan:
Her throat, her form—what masterpiece
Of man can picture half of these!—
She comes! a classic from the hand
Of God! wherethrough I understand
What Nature means and Art and Love,
And all the immortal myths thereof.
KINSHIP
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No April flower, as fair as she:
O white anemone, who hast
The wind’s wild grace,
Know her a cousin of thy race,
Into whose face
A presence like the wind’s hath passed.
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No May-day flower, as fair as she:
O bluebell, tender with the blue
Of sapphire skies,
Thy lineage hath kindred ties
In her, whose eyes
The heaven’s own qualities imbue.
There is no flower of wood or lea,
No June-time flower, as fair as she:
Rose,—odorous with beauty of
Her lips that pressed,—
Behold thy sister here confessed!
Whose maiden breast
Is fragrant with the dreams of love.
“SHE IS SO MUCH”
She is so much to me, to me,
And, oh, I love her so,
I look into my soul and see
How comfort keeps me company
In hopes she, too, may know.
I love her, I love her, I love her,
This I know.