I like the women too (forgive my folly),
From the rich peasant cheek of ruddy bronze,
And large black eyes that flash on you a volley
Of rays that say a thousand things at once,
To the high dama's brow, more melancholy
But clear, and with a wild and liquid glance,
Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
[363]: Voyez Stendhal, Vie de Giacomo Rossini, et Stanley, Vie de Thomas Arnold. Le contraste est complet. Voyez aussi dans Corinne cette opposition très-bien saisie.
[364]: Journal, février 1821.
She with her flush'd cheek laid on her white arm,
And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd
Above her brow, lay dreaming soft and warm;
.... One with her auburn tresses slightly bound,
And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft breath,
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath.
.... A fourth as marble, statue-like and still,
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep;
White, cold and pure........................
.................. a carved lady on a monument.
.... It was like the fawn which, in the lake display'd,
Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass,
When first she starts, and then returns to peep,
Admiring this new native of the deep.
.... It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast,
With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore,
Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host;
And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar,
Save on the dead long summer days, which make
The outstretch'd Ocean glitter like a lake....
And all was stillness, save the sea bird's cry,
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crost
By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret
Against the boundary it scarcely wet.