She turned her face and moved away
But brief light on her countenance
Her gentle features did display
A moment there, and never since.
What saw I then? A rosy cheek
As smooth as cream, a moonlit brow
Creased as if in thought, and now
Ruddy lips part as to speak.
But not to me! I cannot spy
The one whom Providence allowed
Her comp’ny; nor any more descry
That angelic face amongst the crowd:
A hand of grace so quickly gloved
That could or could not soothe the beast
A glimpse of beauty, sure at least
It was, or was not, my beloved.
The image lingers, then is gone
Fading, as image is wont to do.
What remains, a warmth of feeling
Ringing like the carillon
Across sun-dappled pastures pealing:
A glance that lit the world like dawn,
And hopeless hope that again we two
Will meet, perhaps, one day, further on.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 12:57 PM UTC
She turned her face and moved away
But brief light on her countenance
Her gentle features did display
A moment there, and never since.
What saw I then? A rosy cheek
As smooth as cream, a moonlit brow
Creased as if in thought, and now
Ruddy lips part as to speak.
But not to me! I cannot spy
The one whom Providence allowed
Her comp’ny; nor any more descry
That angelic face amongst the crowd:
A hand of grace so quickly gloved
That could or could not soothe the beast
A glimpse of beauty, sure at least
It was, or was not, my beloved.
The image lingers, then is gone
Fading, as image is wont to do.
What remains, a warmth of feeling
Ringing like the carillon
Across sun-dappled pastures pealing:
A glance that lit the world like dawn,
And hopeless hope that again we two
Will meet, perhaps, one day, further on.