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A PORTRAIT

"One name is Elizabeth "

BEN JONSON

I WILL paint her as I see her.
Ten times have the lilies blown
Since she looked upon the sun.

And her face is lily-clear,

Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty
To the law of its own beauty.

Oval cheeks encolored faintly,
Which a trail of golden hair
Keeps from fading off to air:

And a forehead fair and saintly,
Which two blue eyes undershine,
Like meek prayers before a shrine.

Face and figure of a child,

Though too calm, you think, and tender,
For the childhood you would lend her.

Yet child-simple, undefiled,

Frank, obedient, waiting still
On the turnings of your will.

Moving light, as all young things,
As young birds, or early wheat
When the wind blows over it.

Only, free from flutterings

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure-
Taking love for her chief pleasure.

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.

A Portrait

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 far
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.

And all fancies yearn to cover

The hard earth, whereon she passes,
With the thymy-scented grasses.

And all hearts do pray, "God love her!"
Ay and always, in good sooth,

We may all be sure HE DOTH.

325

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]

TO A CHILD OF FANCY

THE nests are in the hedgerows,
The lambs are on the grass;
With laughter sweet as music
The hours lightfooted pass,

My darling child of fancy,
My winsome prattling lass.

Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl,

Red little lips disclosing

Twin rows of fairy pearl,

Cheeks like the apple blossom,
Voice lightsome as the merle.

A whole Spring's fickle changes,
In every short-lived day,
A passing cloud of April,
A flowery smile of May,
A thousand quick mutations
From graver moods to gay.

Far off, I see the season

When thy childhood's course is run,

And thy girlhood opens wider

Beneath the growing sun,

And the rose begins to redden,

But the violets are done.

And further still the summer,
When thy fair tree, fully grown,
Shall bourgeon, and grow splendid
With blossoms of its own,
And the fruit begins to gather,
But the buttercups are mown.

If I should see thy autumn,
"Twill not be close at hand,
But with a spirit vision,
From some far-distant land.

Daisy

Or, perhaps, I hence may see thee
Amongst the angels stand.

I know not what of fortune
The future holds for thee,
Nor if skies fair or clouded
Wait thee in days to be,
But neither joy nor sorrow
Shall sever thee from me.

Dear child, whatever changes
Across our lives may pass,
I shall see thee still for ever,
Clearly as in a glass,

The same sweet child of fancy,

The same dear winsome lass.

327

Lewis Morris [1833-1907]

DAISY

WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown
Six foot out of the turf,

And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-
O the breath of the distant surf!—

The hills look over on the South,

And southward dreams the sea;

And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand,
Came innocence and she.

Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry
Red for the gatherer springs,
Two children did we stray and talk
Wise, idle, childish things.

She listened with big-lipped surprise,
Breast-deep with flower and spine:
Her skin was like a grape, whose veins
Run snow instead of wine.

She knew not those sweet words she spake,
Nor knew her own sweet way;

But there's never a bird, so sweet a song
Thronged in whose throat that day!

Oh, there were flowers in Storrington
On the turf and on the spray;
But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills
Was the Daisy-flower that day!

Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!
She gave me tokens three:-

A look, a word of her winsome mouth,
And a wild raspberry.

A berry red, a guileless look,

A still word, strings of sand!

And yet they made my wild, wild heart
Fly down to her little hand.

For standing artless as the air,
And candid as the skies,

She took the berries with her hand,
And the love with her sweet eyes.

The fairest things have fleetest end:
Their scent survives their close,

But the rose's scent is bitterness
To him that loved the rose!

She looked a little wistfully,

Then went her sunshine way:

The sea's eye had a mist on it,

And the leaves fell from the day.

She went her unremembering way,
She went and left in me

The pang of all the partings gone,
And partings yet to be.

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