Читать книгу Poems - Fanny Kemble - Страница 13

Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time

Hadst been the star of many a poet’s dream!

Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime,

Weddest the gentle graces that beseem

Fair woman’s best! forgive the darling line

That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye

Glance o’er the vain attempt too scornfully;

But, as thou read’st, think what a love was mine,

That made me venture on a theme, that none

Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one.

Thou art most fair, though sorrow’s chastening wing

Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow,

And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing

The splendour of thy beauty’s summer now.

Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness

That dwells not only on the lip, or eye;

Thy beauty, is thy pure heart’s holiness;

Thy grace, thy lofty spirit’s majesty.

While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide,

Like some calm spirit o’er life’s troubled stream,

With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side

Together blossoming; I almost deem

That I behold the loveliness and truth,

That like fair visions hovered round my youth,

Long sought—and then forgotten as a dream.