This is the face of her
I’ve dreamed of long
That in my heart I bear:
This is the face of her
Pictured in song.
Look on the lily lids,
The eyes of dawn,—
Deep as a Nereid’s,
Swimming with dewy lids
In waters wan.
Look on the brows of snow,
The locks of night:
Only the gods can show
Such brows of placid snow,
Such locks of light.
The cheeks, like rosy moons;
The lips of fire:
Love sighs no sweeter tunes
Under romantic moons
Than these suspire.
Loved lips and eyes and hair!
Look, this is she!
She, who sits smiling there,
Throned in my heart’s despair,
Never for me!
INDIFFERENCE
She is so dear the wildflowers near
Each path she passes by,
Are over fain to kiss again
Her feet and then to die.
She is so fair the wild birds there
That sing upon the bough,
Have learned the staff of her sweet laugh,
And sing no other now.
Alas! that she should never see,
Should never care to know,
The wildflower’s love, the bird’s above,
And his, who loves her so.