Poems (Blagden)/A living picture seen in via felice, rome
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A LIVING PICTURE SEEN IN VIA FELICE, ROME.
Thy casement, burnished by the setting sun,
Shines round thee, like a rare and antique frame
Of intricate device—the glory thrown
By its illumined tracery lies like flame
Upon the shadowy masses of thy hair;
And like a pictured saint thou glowest there,
Enshrined so high, with the blue skies above thee:
How may I dare to this dim earth to call thee!
Shines round thee, like a rare and antique frame
Of intricate device—the glory thrown
By its illumined tracery lies like flame
Upon the shadowy masses of thy hair;
And like a pictured saint thou glowest there,
Enshrined so high, with the blue skies above thee:
How may I dare to this dim earth to call thee!
The crimson cushion under thy soft arm
Swells proudly round its whiteness, and has lent
To its pale splendour hues so rich and warm
No painter's hand so cunningly had blent
The jealous shades; thy large black dreamy eyes
Are raised in rival beauty to the skies.
Deem'st thou each cloud that floats so bright above
A kindred angel sighing for thy love?
Swells proudly round its whiteness, and has lent
To its pale splendour hues so rich and warm
No painter's hand so cunningly had blent
The jealous shades; thy large black dreamy eyes
Are raised in rival beauty to the skies.
Deem'st thou each cloud that floats so bright above
A kindred angel sighing for thy love?
I feel, as gazing thus upon thy face,
From the low darkness of the sordid street,
As when, revealed amid th' ethereal space,
The saints of old beheld Madonna sweet,
To comfort and to soothe, a glimpse of heaven,
Foretaste and type of bliss, to them was given.
Less happy I—the heaven where I would soar
To me is closed—rejected, I adore,
And, vainly true, my fruitless worship pour!
From the low darkness of the sordid street,
As when, revealed amid th' ethereal space,
The saints of old beheld Madonna sweet,
To comfort and to soothe, a glimpse of heaven,
Foretaste and type of bliss, to them was given.
Less happy I—the heaven where I would soar
To me is closed—rejected, I adore,
And, vainly true, my fruitless worship pour!