Poems (Allen)/A Bride
For works with similar titles, see A Bride.
HIS fair shape is your bride-to-be?
This white vision you claim as yours
This is the household deity
You are to worship while life endures?
A BRIDE.
HIS fair shape is your bride-to-be?This white vision you claim as yours
This is the household deity
You are to worship while life endures?
Surely a splendor so strange and new
Had in another sphere its birth;—
How could a mortal man like-you
Lure her down to this dull, cold earth?
Had in another sphere its birth;—
How could a mortal man like-you
Lure her down to this dull, cold earth?
Lovely? yes,—there is not a flaw
Her perfect fairness to cloud or spoil;—
Nature for once has broken her law,
And made a beauty without its foil.
Her perfect fairness to cloud or spoil;—
Nature for once has broken her law,
And made a beauty without its foil.
Could threads of gold be as finely spun,
They might shine like her drifting hair;—
And such a brow!—there was never one
Half so queenly or half so fair.
They might shine like her drifting hair;—
And such a brow!—there was never one
Half so queenly or half so fair.
Eyes which fill us with tender pain,
So bewitching their mellow shine.—
Winning all gazers again and again
To bow in vain at their lovely shrine.
So bewitching their mellow shine.—
Winning all gazers again and again
To bow in vain at their lovely shrine.
Never were human lips before
So rarely moulded in any land;
Never a shoulder such dimples bore,—
And look at her dainty, peach-bloom hand
So rarely moulded in any land;
Never a shoulder such dimples bore,—
And look at her dainty, peach-bloom hand
Flushing with young life, pure and rich.
Warm and pink to the pearly nails;—
The listening Venus in yonder niche
Tries to rival their charm,—but fails.
Warm and pink to the pearly nails;—
The listening Venus in yonder niche
Tries to rival their charm,—but fails.
Yet how pulseless and still she stands!
Never a blush is on her cheek,
Never a tremble along her hands!
Say, can she love, or weep, or speak?
Never a blush is on her cheek,
Never a tremble along her hands!
Say, can she love, or weep, or speak?
Was she spoken at once to life,
Every dimple, and tint, and curl
Always a possible queen or wife,
Never a babe, or a bashful girl?
Every dimple, and tint, and curl
Always a possible queen or wife,
Never a babe, or a bashful girl?
Faultless all, in her beauteous prime,—
Stately, regal, if so you will,—
Yet were she mine, I could wish, some time,
Her lip to quiver, her hand to thrill.
Stately, regal, if so you will,—
Yet were she mine, I could wish, some time,
Her lip to quiver, her hand to thrill.
She is perfection, and nothing less,—
Beauty's perfection, and nothing more;
Looking on her, I only guess
What your future may have in store.
Beauty's perfection, and nothing more;
Looking on her, I only guess
What your future may have in store.
Garlands of flowers from lands abroad,
Marvels of artificial bloom,—
Blossoms which never were in the bud,
Flaunt their falsehood in yonder room.
Marvels of artificial bloom,—
Blossoms which never were in the bud,
Flaunt their falsehood in yonder room.
Petals of muslin and silken woof,
Leaves of paper and stems of wire,—
Flowers more brilliant and winter-proof
Than ever sprung from our earthly mire.
Leaves of paper and stems of wire,—
Flowers more brilliant and winter-proof
Than ever sprung from our earthly mire.
Won by their flattering falsity,
(Mark the warning my words disclose,)
I found, this morning, a famished bee
Dead, in the heart of a cambric rose!
(Mark the warning my words disclose,)
I found, this morning, a famished bee
Dead, in the heart of a cambric rose!