Around her slender waist and graceful head
She had bound new-blown buds. But all fair things
Are very fragile, and each scattered bloom
Had fallen from the loosened braid: even those
Prisoners in the soft hand, which lay like snow
Upon the grass, had half escaped; and there
She slept amid the roses she had gathered.
And round the walls were Pictures: some calm scenes
Of Earth's green loveliness, and some whose hues
Were caught from faces in whose smile our life
Is one of Paradise; and Statues, whose white grace
Is as a dream of poetry. But, hung
Apart from all the rest, as if too dear
For aught but solitude, was one,—it was
The portrait of a lovely Girl: the lips
Were such as Summer kisses, when he first
Touches the pure and rosy mouth of Spring;
A languid smile lay on them, as just curled
By some soft thought, which spoke too in her eyes,
Dark and bewildering, whose light is like that
Of an Italian midnight, when the clouds
Send forth their summer lightning, but yet filled
With woman's tenderness. Those lips, those eyes,
Had been voluptuous, melting as they were,
But for the pale cheek, o'er which e’en a blush
Had scarcely passed, it looked so innocent;
And the white brow, with its dark parted hair
Shading its purity; and the clear temples,
Whose blue veins were half hidden by the braids
Of the thick tresses, which, unfastened, fell
Over the veiled bosom. The white dress
Just left the slender throat exposed, as fair
As graceful as the cygnet's. Neither gems
Nor gold marred youth's sweet simpleness; but one
Slight flower lay on her neck,—a green rosebud,
Tinged with faint promise of its future bloom;
And near it the young Painter leant his head,
Bowed as in bitter thought upon his hand;
Over his cheek there was a burning red—
