Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth; Her eyebrow's shape was like the aërial bow Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth Mounting, at times to a transparent glow, As if her veins ran lightning.
Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, Is woman's whole existence.
Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet; Her very nod was not an inclination; There was a self-will even in her small feet, As though they were quite conscious of her station;-- * * * * * But nature teaches more than power can spoil, And when a strong although a strange sensation Moves--female hearts are such a genial soil For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation. They naturally pour the "wine and oil," Samaritans in every situation.
The earth has nothing like a she epistle, And hardly heaven--because it never ends. I love the mystery of a female missal, Which like a creed ne'er says all it intends.
Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, Which judged mankind at their due estimation; And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it: Secure of admiration, its impression Was faint, as of an every-day possession.
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue, Is no great matter, so 'tis in request. 'Tis nonsense to dispute about a hue, The kindest may be taken as a test. The fair sex should be always fair; and no man Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain woman.
She was not violently lively, but Stole on your spirit like a May-day breaking; Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, half shut, They put beholders in a tender taking.
The very first Of human life must spring from woman's breast, Your first small words are taught you from her lips, Your first tears quench'd by her, and your last sighs Too often breathed out in a woman's hearing, When men have shrunk from the ignoble care Of watching the last hour of him who led them.
Soft, as the memory of buried love; Pure, as the prayer which childhood wafts above Was she.
She was a soft landscape of mild earth, Where all was harmony, and calm and quiet, Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth, Which, if not happiness, is more nigh it Than are your mighty passions and so forth, Which some call "the sublime": I wish they'd try it; I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.