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.
She hath been leaning o'er the saintly book
Her clasped hands rest upon, for one rich lock
Hath parted from the mass, across her brow
Pencilling its shadow. You would never guess
Her state from her arraying, at her throat
The sad-hued mantle with its falling hood
Close gathered. Best of all I love her eyes;
I'd have no change in them. I would not see
Even the angel presence of a smile
Troubling their darkness.
Was she good as fair?
How thinkest thou? are not her very looks
Teachers of purity? was she high-born?
Young, lovely, noble, did she give to God
The blossom of her nature? She hath dwelt
Where the Seine wanders. Canst thou image her
A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields,
Binding her brows with grape leaves; else, apart
Weaving fresh chaplets. For she hath been wont
To kneel at Romish altars, and I know
Under the brown folds of her cloak you'd find
Beads and a crucifix. Peasant or queen,
I'll think of her as one whose lightest word
Angels heard unrebuking; whose pure heart
Turned from impurity like a flower that shuts
At the approach of night.
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.
She hath been leaning o'er the saintly book
Her clasped hands rest upon, for one rich lock
Hath parted from the mass, across her brow
Pencilling its shadow. You would never guess
Her state from her arraying, at her throat
The sad-hued mantle with its falling hood
Close gathered. Best of all I love her eyes;
I'd have no change in them. I would not see
Even the angel presence of a smile
Troubling their darkness.
Was she good as fair?
How thinkest thou? are not her very looks
Teachers of purity? was she high-born?
Young, lovely, noble, did she give to God
The blossom of her nature? She hath dwelt
Where the Seine wanders. Canst thou image her
A peasant, loitering through the vintage fields,
Binding her brows with grape leaves; else, apart
Weaving fresh chaplets. For she hath been wont
To kneel at Romish altars, and I know
Under the brown folds of her cloak you'd find
Beads and a crucifix. Peasant or queen,
I'll think of her as one whose lightest word
Angels heard unrebuking; whose pure heart
Turned from impurity like a flower that shuts
At the approach of night.
Ah, be content!
I would not know her history if I could.
I would not know her history if I could.