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IN FRENCH FIELDS.
181
CHINOISERIE.
It's not you, nor you, madam, that I love,
Nor you, Ophelia, nor you, Juliet,
Nor Beatrix, nor e'en Laura, far above
All the blond beauties, with her eyes of jet.
She whom I love in China now resides.
Upon a rock there is a porcelain tower
Beneath which calm the Yellow River glides,
Haunted by cormorants,—there lives the flower!
She has most wondrous dainty little feet,
And flashing eyes deep-set within her head;
A clear tint where the white and crimson meet,
And long nails dyed with henna—deep, deep red.
Out of her trellis when she cares to gaze,
Although no poets may her praises sing,
The swallows wheeling past her fair cheek graze,
And peach-flowers, looking up, like sweet bells ring.
