BY MARION H. RAND.
Alas, the romances! the beautiful fancies!
We fling round our thoughts of a poet;
How can we believe that the web which we weave
Has no solid basis below it?
Youth, beauty and grace—a soul-speaking face,
And eyes full of genius and fire;
The softest dark hair, with a curl here and there;
All this, without fail, we require.
A warm feeling heart, affectation or art
Unknown to its deepest recesses;
A brow fair and high, where her thoughts open lie
To him who admiringly gazes.
But let this bright thought, this idol, be brought
To nearer and closer inspection—
Alas! 'tis a dream! 'tis a straying sunbeam,
Of far more than human perfection.
Then turn for awhile from the heavenly smile
That haunts thy fond fancy, young dreamer;
Turn from the ideal to gaze on the real,
And see if she be what you deem her.
She is young, it is true, her eyes dark and blue,
But sadly deficient in lustre,
While often is seen in one hand a pen,
In the other a mop or a duster.
Her hair, of a shade inclining to red,
Is tied up and carefully braided;
And the forehead below (not as white the snow)
By no drooping ringlet is shaded.