WAS man e'er doomed that beauty made By mimic art should haunt him; Like Orpheus, I adore a shade, And dote upon a phantom. Thou maid that in my inmost thought Art fancifully sainted, Why liv'st thou not -- why art thou nought But canvass sweetly painted? Whose looks seem lifted to the skies, Too pure for love of mortals -- As if they drew angelic eyes To greet thee at heaven's portals. Yet loveliness has here no grace, Abstracted or ideal -- Art ne'er but from a living face Drew looks so seeming real. What wert thou, maid? -- thy life -- thy name Oblivion hides in mystery; Though from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history. Transported to thy time I seem, Though dust thy coffin covers -- And hear the songs, in fancy's dream, Of thy devoted lovers. How witching must have been thy breath How sweet the living charmer, Whose every semblance after death Can make the heart grow warmer! Adieu, the charms that vainly move My soul in their possession -- That prompt my lips to speak of love, Yet rob them of expression. Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised Was but a poet's duty; And shame to him that ever gazed Impassive on thy beauty. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AUTUMN TINTS by MATHILDE BLIND THE DESERT WIND by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 34. REMINDING HER OF A PROMISE (4) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT FRIENDSHIP by MARIA GOWEN BROOKS A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 40. COME AWAY! BRING ON THE BRIDE by THOMAS CAMPION |