Freston
127
Hush thy sweet clamor! To the foot-lights now
Is gliding one, to whom all hearts must bow
In homage to true genius; by wide gates
Of song, La Bella Fornarina waits.
Is gliding one, to whom all hearts must bow
In homage to true genius; by wide gates
Of song, La Bella Fornarina waits.
She seems a being far beyond our ken,—
Too pure to tread the common world of men;—
And yet, too human for God's sunlit bow'rs,
Though her white hands have gathered Eden-flow'rs.
And so, 'twixt heaven and earth, she stands sublime,
Calm and unmoved as saint of olden time;
Spreads her white wings of genius o'er the throng,
And lifts her head,—to list the angel's song,—
Rouses the sleeping soul to dreams of love,
And wings the thoughts, to soar this earth above.
Too pure to tread the common world of men;—
And yet, too human for God's sunlit bow'rs,
Though her white hands have gathered Eden-flow'rs.
And so, 'twixt heaven and earth, she stands sublime,
Calm and unmoved as saint of olden time;
Spreads her white wings of genius o'er the throng,
And lifts her head,—to list the angel's song,—
Rouses the sleeping soul to dreams of love,
And wings the thoughts, to soar this earth above.
What is it to her that a thousand eyes
Gaze on her beauty with a mute surprise?
What is it to her that a thousand hung
On the first accents of her inspired tongue?
All petty hopes and fears to her are naught,—
God-crowned young empress of the realm of thought!
Her hair, in dusky splendor, ripples down;
Her brow is circled by a diamond crown;
Gaze on her beauty with a mute surprise?
What is it to her that a thousand hung
On the first accents of her inspired tongue?
All petty hopes and fears to her are naught,—
God-crowned young empress of the realm of thought!
Her hair, in dusky splendor, ripples down;
Her brow is circled by a diamond crown;
