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SONNET.
Art thou of earth? thine is a sainted brow;
Peace is upon its arch of stainless white,
And thine unclosed eye sheds on the sight
A soul of virtue in its rays' mild glow.
There is no touch upon that perfect face
Of frail mortality; and the faint rose,
Which o'er thy cheek its softened lustre throws,
Is all that round thee breathes of human grace.
But for that tender blush, so warm with life,
Thou mightst be angel deemed—spirit of heaven:
So pure the thoughts which in that bosom haven,
So far beyond one mortal feeling's strife.
Art thou of earth? O speak! and if thou art,
Give me to read one calm and guileless heart!
Peace is upon its arch of stainless white,
And thine unclosed eye sheds on the sight
A soul of virtue in its rays' mild glow.
There is no touch upon that perfect face
Of frail mortality; and the faint rose,
Which o'er thy cheek its softened lustre throws,
Is all that round thee breathes of human grace.
But for that tender blush, so warm with life,
Thou mightst be angel deemed—spirit of heaven:
So pure the thoughts which in that bosom haven,
So far beyond one mortal feeling's strife.
Art thou of earth? O speak! and if thou art,
Give me to read one calm and guileless heart!
