AH, she was not an angel to adore, She was not perfect -- she was only this: A woman to be prattled to, to kiss, To praise with all sweet praises, and before Whose face you never were ashamed to lay The affections of your pride away. I have kept Fancy traveling to and fro Full many an hour, to find what name were best, If there were any sweeter than the rest, That I might always call my darling so; And this of woman seems to me the sweetest, The finest, the most gracious, the completest. The dust she wore about her I agree Was poor and sickly, even to make you sad, But this rough world we live in never had An ornament more excellent than she; The earthly dress was all so frail that you Could see the beauteous spirit shining through. Not what she was, but what she was to me Is what I fain would tell -- from her was drawn The softness of the eve, the light of dawn; With her and for her I could only see What things were sweet and sensible and pure; Now all is dull, slow guessing, nothing sure. My sorrow with this comfort yet is stilled -- I do not dread to hear the winter stir His wild winds up -- I have no fear for her: And all my love could never hope to build A place so sweet beneath heaven's arch of blue, As she by death has been elected to. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO W.P.: 4 by GEORGE SANTAYANA TONE PICTURE (MALIPIERO: IMPRESSONI DAL VERO) by JEAN STARR UNTERMEYER THE SCARLET TANAGER by JOEL BENTON PRELUDES: 1-4 (COMPLETE) by THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT FOR THE QUEEN MOTHER by JOHN BETJEMAN BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 2. THE FOURTH SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |