  How much of precious joy, that leaves no pain, Lives in the simple memory of a face Once seen, and only for a little space, And never after to be seen again: A face as fair as, on an altar pane, A pictured window in some holy place— The glowing lineaments of immortal grace, In many a vague ideal sought in vain. Such face was yours, and such the joy to me, Who saw you once, once only, and by chance, And cherished evermore in memory The noble beauty of your countenance— The poet's natural language in your looks, Sweet as the wondrous sweetness of your books. George Cotterell. |
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