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A hand as only used to wave
Its sign to worshipper and slave.—
A forehead—but that was too fair
To read of aught save beauty there.
Beautiful, but thrice wayward, wild,
Capricious as a petted child,
She was all chance, all change; but now
A smile is on her radiant brow,—
A moment, and that smile is fled—
Contempt and scorn are there instead.
Ah, every change of beauty's face
And beauty's mood has its own grace.
(from “THE TROUBADOUR.”)
