Of woman be not only Art’s ideal;
If when in ecstasy we gaze on it
We know that all its loveliness is real—
That in this face, by guileless rapture lit,
We see the reflex of thy living features;
And if thy voice this seraph-face befit,
No marvel ’tis that over genial natures
Thy power is felt as more than of the earth—
A gift, among the myriads of God’s creatures,
To prove how much may spring from human birth