Choosing pleasures (for the rest)
Which come softly—just as she,
When she nestles at your knee.
Quiet talk she liketh best,
In a bower of gentle looks,—
Watering flowers, or reading books.
And her voice, it murmurs lowly,
As a silver stream may run,
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun.
And her smile, it seems half holy,
As if drawn from thoughts more fair
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.