Poetry Archives

A budding mouth and warm blue eyes;
A laughing face;—and laughing hair,
    So ruddy does it rise
    From off that forehead fair;

Frank fervor in whate’er she said,
And a shy grace when she was still;
    A bright, elastic tread;
    Enthusiastic will;

These wrought the magic of a maid
As sweet and sad as the sun in spring,
    Joyous, yet half-afraid
    Her joyousness to sing.

What weighs the unworthiness of earth
When beauty such as this finds birth?
    Rare maid, to look on thee
    Gives all things harmony!