  One may read from the face at leisure, From the leaf that reflects the soul, The thought, the desire, and the measure That imprint on the facial scroll The innermost mind and its actions, The heart with its strongest desires, The passions, impulses, and factions Which animate clay oft inspires. Ev'ry line of th' face has a father Whose hand has engraven it there, But shades of the spirit are rather Betrayed in the hue of the hair; The pencils of thought, true to nature, Have written their records so plain, That a skillful eye reads each feature That dwells in the heart and the brain. One may peep into occult recesses Which only the face will reveal, May read what the tongue quite represses But the eye cannot fully conceal, May fathom the deepest depressions Where the soul has buried its woe, Where the heart would hold secret sessions With scenes and events long ago. |
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