by Walter M. Lindsay
The grace of childhood clings to thee,
In thy maturing youth;
Thy woman looks are eloquent
With purity and truth;
And, in thy gentle mien, there is
The steadfastness of Ruth.
There have been locks of richer brown,
And eyes as calmly bright,
And cheeks that blushed a rosier hue,
And brows as marble white;
But never one, whose beauty stirred
The heart to more delight.
Expression such as thine it was, --
As beautiful and mild, --
That, in the watches of the night,
Upon the painter smiled,
Beside his canvas dreaming of
Madonna and her Child.
Thy mind is like a placid stream,
Outspread beneath the sky,
That mirrors in its waters all
The changing world on high, --
The sun, the stars, the wandering cloud,
That slowly saileth by.
We are not wholly left of Heaven,
While such remain on earth,
Who from no human standard take
The measure of their worth,
But were created perfect by
The Hand that gave them birth.
D. Appleton And Company,
346 And 348 Broadway