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The Literary Gazette, 29th September 1827, page 636
ORIGINAL POETRY.
ELISE.
O let me love her! she has past
Into my inmost heart—
A dweller on the hallowed ground
Of its least worldly part;
Where feelings and where memories dwell
Like hidden music in the shell.
She was so like the forms that float;
On twilight's hour to me,
Making of cloud-born shapes and thoughts
A dear reality:
As much a thing of light and air
As ever poet's visions were.
I left smoke, vanities, and cares,
Just far enough behind,
To dream of fairies 'neath the moon,
Of voices on the wind;
And every fantasy of mine
Was truth in that sweet face of thine.
Her cheek was very very pale,
Yet it was still more fair;
Lost were one half its loveliness,
Had the red rose been there:
But now that sad and touching grace
Made her's seem like an angel's face.
The spring, with all its breath and bloom,
Hath not so dear a flower,
As the white lily's languid head
Drooping beneath the shower;
And health hath ever waken'd less
Of deep and anxious tenderness.
