Such elements in her are exquisitely blent
She cannot but be kind;
A spiritual radiance in her beauty
Makes itself inly felt, even by the blind.
Ah, thou and I, dear soul! we know
How the rich courtesy that touched full many a heart
Is no mere learnt and gracious art;
For when, to those she loved, keen trouble came,
How leaped her spirit, like a flame;
How quick, sure, self-forgetting, beyond thought,
The angelic succor that brave spirit brought!
III
How may I fitly name them all—
The graces, gentlenesses, benedicities,
That in a white processional
Move before these musing eyes;
Nor would I shame
That proud humility which is the crown and chief
Of all the virtues that make up her golden sheaf;
Tho' should I name
Each separate goodness, clearly, that is her very own,
To her calm eyes, alone,
The authentic picture would be never known—
The portrait of another it would seem;
And should one say, "This, this indeed is you!"
"No," she would cry, "'t is but a poet's dream,
And, save as a dream, it cannot all be true!"
IV
This, then, the dream: Large, innocent eyes,
Lit with life's romance and surprise,
And with a child's strange wisdom wise.
