To Sophia (Miss Stacey)

Thou art fair, and few are fairer

Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean;

They are robes that fit the wearer—

Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion

Ever falls and shifts and glances

As the life within them dances.

Thy deep eyes, a double Planet,

Gaze the wisest into madness

With soft clear fire,—the winds that fan it

Are those thoughts of tender gladness

Which, like zephyrs on the billow,

Make thy gentle soul their pillow.

If, whatever face thou paintest

In those eyes, grows pale with pleasure,

If the fainting soul is faintest

When it hears thy harp's wild measure,

Wonder not that when thou speakest

Of the weak my heart is weakest.

As dew beneath the wind of morning,

As the sea which whirlwinds waken,

As the birds at thunder's warning,

As aught mute yet deeply shaken,

As one who feels an unseen spirit

Is my heart when thine is near it.