THE BROWN MANTLE.
Write thee her history? why, dear friend, I weave
Always a new one. That of yesterday
To-day seems trite. Some varying of my mood,
Some chance-thrown light upon the picture caught,
Still makes me question if I read aright
The limner's meaning. I can only guess
That not in grief or guilt her soul is drawn
Through her raised eyes towards Heaven. Too ripe a hue
Crimsons the passionate fulness of her lip;
The black profusion of her rippled hair
Caught backward from a cheek too rosy clear.
Always a new one. That of yesterday
To-day seems trite. Some varying of my mood,
Some chance-thrown light upon the picture caught,
Still makes me question if I read aright
The limner's meaning. I can only guess
That not in grief or guilt her soul is drawn
Through her raised eyes towards Heaven. Too ripe a hue
Crimsons the passionate fulness of her lip;
The black profusion of her rippled hair
Caught backward from a cheek too rosy clear.
