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TO MY OWN PORTRAIT.*[1]
How is it that before mine eyes,
While gazing on thy mien,
All my past years of life arise,
As in a mirror seen?
What spell within thee hath been shrined,
To image back my own deep mind?
Even as a song of other times,
Can trouble memory's springs;
Even as a sound of vesper-chimes,
Can wake departed things;
Even as a scent of vernal flowers
Hath records fraught with vanished hours;
- ↑
* Painted by W. E. West.
