  She was not very beautiful, if it be beauty's test To match a classic model when perfectly at rest; And she did not look bewitchingly, if witchery it be, To have a forehead and a lip transparent as the sea. The fashion of her gracefulness was not a follow'd rule, And her effervescent sprightliness was never learnt at school; And her words were all peculiar, like the fairy's who 'spoke pearls;' And her tone was ever sweetest midst the cadences of girls. Said I she was not beautiful? Her eyes upon your sight Broke with the lambent purity of planetary light, And an intellectual beauty, like a light within a vase, Touched every line with glory of her animated face. Her mind with sweets was laden, like a morning breath in June, And her thoughts awoke in harmony, like dreamings of a tune, And you heard her words like voices that o'er the waters creep, Or like a serenader's lute that mingles with your sleep. She had an earnest intellect—a perfect thirst of mind, And a heart by elevated thoughts and poetry refin'd, And she saw a subtle tint or shade with every careless look, And the hidden links of nature were familiar as a book. She's made of those rare elements that now and then appear, As if remov'd by accident unto a lesser sphere, Forever reaching up, and on, to life's sublimer things, As if they had been used to track the universe with wings. |
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