AGAINST a tree that might be any tree, Mid leaves of every season, sits a lady In silk and velvet, with equable soft eyes. Her hair is like a shell smooth with the sea, Her face is porcelain; and in that shady Green stirless bower she sits, beyond surprise, And in her lap an unread letter lies. Is it that colour makes the loveliness? Is it that never-recoverable serene? Is it the fingers lying gently laced? Is it the mingling light and shadowiness That draws my eyes, the ever-living green That draws my heart?—Never to be embraced, Maybe, by warm soft hands her hidden waist. Love loves not reasons, and I know not why I love her; maybe but because she is mine, Or because first on her my questions fell As I peered at her with a childish eye, And hers looked down at me with tranquil shine, While I thought of the letter that might well— If she dare read it—all her story tell. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE BERKSHIRE HILLS by LOUIS UNTERMEYER A DIVINE IMAGE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE HEAVEN-HAVEN; A NUN TAKES THE VEIL by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS THE SHEPHERDESS by ALICE MEYNELL THE SHEPHEARDES CALENDER: AUGUST by EDMUND SPENSER PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 48. AL-WADOOD by EDWIN ARNOLD SONNET: 4 by RICHARD BARNFIELD IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: LIBERTY, EQUALITY ... by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |