SHE was a fair young girl, yet on her brow No pale pearl shone, a blemish on the pure And snowy lustre of its living light, No radiant gem shone beautifully through The shadowing of her tresses, as a star Through the dark sky of midnight; and no wreath Of coral circled on her queenly neck, In mockery of the glowing cheek and lip, Whose hue the fairy guardian of the flowers Might never rival when her delicate touch Tinges the rose of springtime. Unadorned, Save by her youthful charms, and with a garb Simple as Nature's self, why turn to her The proud and gifted, and the versed in all The pageantry of fashion? She hath not Moved down the dance to music, when the hall Is lighted up like sunshine, and the thrill Of the light viol and the mellow flute, And the deep tones of manhood, softened down To very music melt upon the ear. -- She has not mingled with the hollow world Nor tampered with its mockeries, until all The delicate perceptions of the heart, The innate modesty, the watchful sense Of maiden dignity, are lost within The maze of fashion and the din of crowds. Yet Beauty hath its homage. Kings have bowed From the tall majesty of ancient thrones With a prostrated knee, yea, cast aside The awfulness of time-created power For the regardful glances of a child. Yea, the high ones and powerful of Earth, The helmed sons of victory, the grave And schooled philosophers, the giant men Of overmastering intellect, have turned Each from the separate idol of his high And vehement ambition for the low Idolatry of human loveliness; And bartered the sublimity of mind, The godlike and commanding intellect Which nations knelt to, for a woman's tear, A soft-toned answer, or a wanton's smile. And in the chastened beauty of that eye, And in the beautiful play of that red lip, And in the quiet smile, and in the voice Sweet as the tuneful greeting of a bird To the first flowers of springtime, there is more Than the perfection of the painter's skill Or statuary's moulding. Mind is there, The pure and holy attributes of soul, The seal of virtue, the exceeding grace Of meekness blended with a maiden pride; Nor deem ye that beneath the gentle smile, And the calm temper of a chastened mind No warmth of passion kindles, and no tide Of quick and earnest feeling courses on From the warm heart's pulsations. There are springs Of deep and pure affection, hidden now, Within that quiet bosom, which but wait The thrilling of some kindly touch, to flow Like waters from the Desert-rock of old. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HE WROTE THE HISTORY BOOK,' IT SAID by MARIANNE MOORE THE NEWLY WEDDED by WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED PETER QUINCE AT THE CLAVIER by WALLACE STEVENS LINES ON THE MONUMENT OF GIUSEPPE MAZZINI by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE AULD ROB MORRIS by ROBERT BURNS |