SHE sends her portrait, as a swallow, To show that her sweet spring will follow; Until she comes herself, to share With me a pillow and her hair. To this fine portrait of my Dear, With nothing but dead matter near, I whisper words of love, and kiss The cardboard dewy with my bliss. This is her hair, which I will bind Around my knuckles, when inclined To bandage them in skeins of gold. These are her lips, in paper mould, Which when I touch appear to move, As conscious of my burning love. These are her eyes, now hard and set, And opened wide, which Love will shut. Lord, is my kiss too poor and weak To make this portrait move and speak, And close these eyes in fear of this Strong love of mine, half bite, half kiss! Now, when I rest awhile from kissing, My room looks lonely with her missing. Now empty seems that chair, where she Could sit this night and smile to see Her own light fingers work with grace, Straight cotton into cobweb lace; Or when they rub that small gold band That makes her mine, on her left hand. O that my love were sitting there, Before me, in that empty chair; Rocking the love-light, where it lies Cradled for joy in her two eyes. Till in the flesh she comes to kiss, Be happy, man, that she sends this -- Her own dear portrait, as a swallow, To show that her sweet spring will follow. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ONLY WAITING by FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE TO ALFRED TENNYSON, MY GRANDSON by ALFRED TENNYSON SONG OF THE WHITE COMPANY by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE THE ROAD TO SLUMBERLAND by MARY DOW BRINE THE FUNERAL OF A VILLAGE GIRL by JULIEN AUGUSTE PELAGE BRIZEUX THE LAST STILE by RICHARD EUGENE BURTON THE CANTERBURY TALES: THE MAN OF LAW'S TALE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER ALICE DU CLOS: OR THE FORKED TONGUE. A BALLAD by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |