HIS PICTURE OF HER.
She carries heaven wherever she goes;
An angel with hidden wings,―
She’s sphered about with a sweet repose
That touches surrounding things.
You cannot look in her bonny eyes
But your though will warm and stir
With a thankful thrill, in its glad surprise,
For the beauty born with her.
She’s the mate of all that is sweet and pure,―
The birds, the stars, and the flowers,―
Her touch is delight, and her kiss a cure,
In this briery world of ours!
There’s a light that lieth upon her grace,
Like the sun on far blue seas;
And her voice is as tender as her face,
And like the harp of the breeze;
And tender as either of the twain
Her shapely and supple hand,
The soother and sweetener of pain.
And the lily of all the land!
O, under her feet the roses bloom,
Where only were thorns of yore!
She’s so bright that the shadow finds no room
Where all was so dark before!
Till by Heartscase sown in this wilderness
We reckon her years’ increase;
For she knows the ways of Pleasantness,
And finds the paths of Peace!
Sitting alone to-day, there came to me
A though that vexed me, like a flitting shadow
That comes between us and the sun. It was,
“When Clarence marries, what becomes of me?”
I shall not marry; but can I expect
That he will keep like singleness of soul?
They say faces wile man’s hearts away.
And yet I cannot think of him as married.
Without a twinge of pain,― I am so selfish!