Think not her face is patched with pink, Or is a jumbled mess to seem, As berries red, that neither sink Nor swim in shallows of pale cream -- Oh, no! her face it is not white, Nor red, nor brown, nor dark, nor fair, Nor yellow sure, though all the light Of gold and yellow flower meets there; So radiant is my loved one's face There's not one colour there to trace. I know not where the light turns on: Whether that wondrous ball of hair And golden fire reflects upon Her cheeks, creating sunbeams there, I cannot tell; but it is sweet Back of that column white as snow To let my fingers link and meet Under her hair falls, and to know Her mine; where it feels warm; a nest Just emptied by the birds at rest. A thousand sunbeams on each cheek Are crowding eager to o'erleap Her blue eyes' fence rails, where they seek To drown themselves in pools so deep; And leapt them seems that many have, Yet, strange to say, not one could drown, But may be seen afloat the wave, Bobbing their bodies up and down; And not a beam that leapt the fence Lost its soul's light in consequence. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...KEEP A-PLUGGING AWAY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR THE HARP by RALPH WALDO EMERSON DIRGE IN WOODS by GEORGE MEREDITH THE NIGHTINGALE by PHILIP SIDNEY DICK, A MAGGOT by JONATHAN SWIFT THE HOSTESS' DAUGHTER by JOHANN LUDWIG UHLAND |