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Was she an orphan? —can another grief
So wholly chasten? —can another woe
So sanctify? —for she was (as a leaf
Of hue funereal mid the Spring's young glow)
Robed in emphatic black: —the soul of night
Filled her rich simply-parted ebon hair,
And raven eye-lashes, and made her bright
With solemn lustre day can never wear.
Two younger buds, a sister at each side,
Like little moon-lit clouds beside the moon,
Which up the sky's majestic temple glide,
Clad darkly too, she led, —but music soon
Moved over her, and like a breeze of heaven,
Shook from her lips the fragrance of her soul, —
And then, the thoughts with which my heart had striven,
Spoke in my gaze, and would not brook control.
I bent upon her my astonished eye,
That glowed, I felt, with an expression full
Of all that love which dares to deify, —
That adoration of the beautiful
Which haunts the poet, —I forgot the sighs
Of whispered prayer around me, and the page
Of hope divine, and the eternal eyes
That look through every heart, in every place and age.
I gazed and gazed as though she were a star,
Unconscious and unfallen, which shone above, afar.—
But eloquently grave, a crimson cloud
Of deep disquietude her cheek o'erspread
With exquisite rebuke; —and then I bowed
Like hers my earnest looks and conscious head,
Ashamed to have disturbed the current meek
Of her translucent thoughts, and made them flow
Painfully earthward. But she veiled that cheek, —
Veiled even its sweet reproach and sacred glow,
Like those pure flowers too sensitive to brook
Noon's burning eye, and its oppressive look,
That shut, in beautiful displeasure, up
Each brilliant petal of their heart's deep cup.
