And on that cheek and o'er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent.

Lord Byron

CLXXIV

HE was a phantom of delight

Shea has she gleam'd upon my sight;

A lovely apparition, sent

To be a moment's ornament;

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.

I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too!

Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;

A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

And now I see with eye serene

The very pulse of the machine;

A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveller between life and death:
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly plann'd

To

warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright

With something of an angel-light.

W. Wordsworth

CLXXV

HE is not fair to outward view

SHE is not fair to outwa

Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smiled on me.

O then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.

But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye:
Her very frowns are fairer far

Than smiles of other maidens are.

CLXXVI

H. Coleridge

I

FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden;

Thou needest not fear mine;

My spirit is too deeply laden

Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion

With which I worship thine.

P. B. Shelley

SHE

CLXXVII

THE LOST LOVE

HE dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove;

A maid whom there were none to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the eye!
-Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and O!

The difference to me!

W. Wordsworth

CLXXVIII

I

TRAVELL'D

among unknown men

In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then

What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time, for still I seem

To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;

And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel
Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd The bowers where Lucy play'd;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

W. Wordsworth

CLXXIX

THE EDUCATION OF NATURE

she

grew

in sun and shower;

THREE years said, lovelier flower

On earth was never sown :

This child I to myself will take;

She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.

'Myself will to my darling be

Both law and impulse: and with me

The girl, in rock and plain

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower
Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

'She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs;

And her's shall be the breathing balm,
And her's the silence and the calm
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

E'en in the motions of the storm

Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

'The stars of midnight shall be dear

To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,

And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

'And vital feelings of delight

Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give

While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell.'

Thus Nature spake - The work was done —

How soon my Lucy's race was run!

She died, and left to me

This heath, this calm and quiet scene;

The memory of what has been,

And never more will be.

W. Wordsworth

A

CLXXX

SLUMBER did my spirit seal;
I had no human fears:

She seem'd a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.