A PORTRAIT "One name is Elizabeth " BEN JONSON I WILL paint her as I see her. And her face is lily-clear, Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty Oval cheeks encolored faintly, And a forehead fair and saintly, Face and figure of a child, Though too calm, you think, and tender, Yet child-simple, undefiled, Frank, obedient, waiting still Moving light, as all young things, Only, free from flutterings Of loud mirth that scorneth measure- Choosing pleasures, for the rest, Quiet talk she liketh best, In a bower of gentle looks,— A Portrait And her voice, it murmurs lowly, And her smile it seems half holy, And if any poet knew her, He would sing of her with falls And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware And if reader read the poem, He would whisper-"You have done a 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 And all voices that address her, And all fancies yearn to cover The hard earth, whereon she passes, And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" We may all be sure HE DOTH. 325 Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861] TO A CHILD OF FANCY THE nests are in the hedgerows, My darling child of fancy, Blue eyes, with long brown lashes, Thickets of golden curl, Red little lips disclosing Twin rows of fairy pearl, Cheeks like the apple blossom, A whole Spring's fickle changes, 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, If I should see thy autumn, Daisy Or, perhaps, I hence may see thee I know not what of fortune Dear child, whatever changes The same sweet child of fancy, The same dear winsome lass. 327 Lewis Morris [1833-1907] DAISY WHERE the thistle lifts a purple crown And the harebell shakes on the windy hill- The hills look over on the South, And southward dreams the sea; And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand, Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry She listened with big-lipped surprise, She knew not those sweet words she spake, But there's never a bird, so sweet a song Oh, there were flowers in Storrington Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! A look, a word of her winsome mouth, A berry red, a guileless look, A still word, strings of sand! And yet they made my wild, wild heart For standing artless as the air, She took the berries with her hand, The fairest things have fleetest end: But the rose's scent is bitterness 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, The pang of all the partings gone, |