Pebbles and Shells (Hawkes collection)/A Portrait of My Lady
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A PORTRAIT OF MY LADY
PRELUDE
O words! weak words, how can I give thee form
And color like the fair young face I fain
Would paint? How can I give thee light and shade,
And strength and truth and gentle earnestness,
And crown them all with that rich coronet
Of human life, a great and noble soul?
And color like the fair young face I fain
Would paint? How can I give thee light and shade,
And strength and truth and gentle earnestness,
And crown them all with that rich coronet
Of human life, a great and noble soul?
O eyes! deep lucent pools of tenderness
And truth, where all that fair or good in earth
Or heaven mirrored lies, where burns the fire
Of proud ambition towards the infinite,
And soul that will not rest content with small
Uncertain things, but needs must climb from height
To height, undazzled by the altitude,
That cannot rest until it knoweth God,
The source, and author of the universe,
The fountain of all beauty and all truth,
And knowing Him—must love the mystery
Of earth, of air, of sun, of sky, and all
That moves and lives in this great universe.
O eyes, so strong, so deep, so grave, so full
Of that unspoken language of the soul;
Mine own poor orbs go down before thy gaze
As 'twere an angel sent to me from heaven
To read my heart and pierce my inmost soul;
So rare, so pure, so heavenly is your light.
And truth, where all that fair or good in earth
Or heaven mirrored lies, where burns the fire
Of proud ambition towards the infinite,
And soul that will not rest content with small
Uncertain things, but needs must climb from height
To height, undazzled by the altitude,
That cannot rest until it knoweth God,
The source, and author of the universe,
The fountain of all beauty and all truth,
And knowing Him—must love the mystery
Of earth, of air, of sun, of sky, and all
That moves and lives in this great universe.
O eyes, so strong, so deep, so grave, so full
Of that unspoken language of the soul;
Mine own poor orbs go down before thy gaze
As 'twere an angel sent to me from heaven
To read my heart and pierce my inmost soul;
So rare, so pure, so heavenly is your light.
O lips! fair servants of the heart and brain,
Expressing all her thoughts and feelings in
Such myriad forms of speech, and diverse looks,
And little intonations quaint and sweet
That saying nothing, mean a volume full,
And fill the poet's heart with joy and fear;
That in their speech let fall such pearls of truth,
Such spotless gems of fancy and of wit,
It seemed she held the chalice of all wit,
All wisdom, and all fancy in her hands,
And did but lavish forth what pleased her mood,
And in such tones it seemed a siren spake;
And who shall paint the rapture of those lips
When through their ruby depths there breaks a smile
Like sunlight through the rosy gates of morn,
Or like a primrose parted by a sunbeam.
O lips of beauty, strength and eloquence,
Of tenderness and power all blent in one,
O bless me with one word of gracious praise,
Of commendation for this poor attempt,
And more—O ecstacy too great for words,
One word of love, of sweet abiding love,
Beside which all life's other gold is dross.
Expressing all her thoughts and feelings in
Such myriad forms of speech, and diverse looks,
And little intonations quaint and sweet
That saying nothing, mean a volume full,
And fill the poet's heart with joy and fear;
That in their speech let fall such pearls of truth,
Such spotless gems of fancy and of wit,
It seemed she held the chalice of all wit,
All wisdom, and all fancy in her hands,
And did but lavish forth what pleased her mood,
And in such tones it seemed a siren spake;
And who shall paint the rapture of those lips
When through their ruby depths there breaks a smile
Like sunlight through the rosy gates of morn,
Or like a primrose parted by a sunbeam.
O lips of beauty, strength and eloquence,
Of tenderness and power all blent in one,
O bless me with one word of gracious praise,
Of commendation for this poor attempt,
And more—O ecstacy too great for words,
One word of love, of sweet abiding love,
Beside which all life's other gold is dross.
O face! the looking glass of woman's soul,
The full blown rose of all her sweet perfection,
The never failing index of the heart,
What strength, what beauty in thy every line,
What high-born thought, what thrilling passion speaks
In eye, in mouth, and in thy noble brow;
What envy for the rose is in thy blush,
What venom for the lily in thy skin.
O face, what greater rapture could man know
Than biding near her while my lady dreams,
And watch the play, the change of light and shade,
Upon her face, when life's full chord is struck
And flesh reveals the spirit that's within.
The full blown rose of all her sweet perfection,
The never failing index of the heart,
What strength, what beauty in thy every line,
What high-born thought, what thrilling passion speaks
In eye, in mouth, and in thy noble brow;
What envy for the rose is in thy blush,
What venom for the lily in thy skin.
O face, what greater rapture could man know
Than biding near her while my lady dreams,
And watch the play, the change of light and shade,
Upon her face, when life's full chord is struck
And flesh reveals the spirit that's within.
O form! that matches symmetry with grace,
And eloquence and brawn, with beauty too,
Where is the Venus, born of ancient art,
Or Diana, so strong and swift of foot,
In noble bust that can compare with thee?
How flows the rich profusion of thy hair
In glossy tresses down a lily neck,
How swells the contour of thy virgin breast
With all that is most noble in the heart,
What graceful curves thy sloping shoulders make,
And how above the rest, serene and full
Thy noble forehead speaks intelligence.
And eloquence and brawn, with beauty too,
Where is the Venus, born of ancient art,
Or Diana, so strong and swift of foot,
In noble bust that can compare with thee?
How flows the rich profusion of thy hair
In glossy tresses down a lily neck,
How swells the contour of thy virgin breast
With all that is most noble in the heart,
What graceful curves thy sloping shoulders make,
And how above the rest, serene and full
Thy noble forehead speaks intelligence.
O queen of beauty! regent of my heart!
I bring this poor portrayal of thy grace,
A better theme for Petrarch, or the bard
Who tuned his lyre for goddesses of old,
And beg thee hang it in thy banquet hall,
Not that it is sufficient in itself,
But that it is a labor of such love.
There let it hang, upon the frescoed wall
Just where some merry sunbeam deigns to slant,
Itself a sunbeam from the source of light,
That some may know, who pause and chance to look
Above the mould, and cobwebs at their feet,
That some poor fool has dreamed, and e'en aspired
Out of his boundless love that gave him strength,
To paint for man, that fairest work of God,
Set like a jewel in a grosser world
That better shows it forth, a perfect woman.
I bring this poor portrayal of thy grace,
A better theme for Petrarch, or the bard
Who tuned his lyre for goddesses of old,
And beg thee hang it in thy banquet hall,
Not that it is sufficient in itself,
But that it is a labor of such love.
There let it hang, upon the frescoed wall
Just where some merry sunbeam deigns to slant,
Itself a sunbeam from the source of light,
That some may know, who pause and chance to look
Above the mould, and cobwebs at their feet,
That some poor fool has dreamed, and e'en aspired
Out of his boundless love that gave him strength,
To paint for man, that fairest work of God,
Set like a jewel in a grosser world
That better shows it forth, a perfect woman.