A Portrait

A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face,

And slightly nonchalant,

Which seems to claim a middle place

Between one's love and aunt,

Where childhood's star has left a ray

In woman's sunniest sky,

As morning dew and blushing day

On fruit and blossom lie.

And yet, - and yet I cannot love

Those lovely lines on steel;

They beam too much of heaven above,

Earth's darker shades to feel;

Perchance some early weeds of care

Around my heart have grown,

And brows unfurrowed seem not fair,

Because they mock my own.

Alas! when Eden's gates were sealed,

How oft some sheltered flower

Breathed o'er the wanderers of the field,

Like their own bridal bower;

Yet, saddened by its loveliness,

And humbled by its pride,

Earth's fairest child they could not bless,

It mocked them when they sighed