TO HERSA.
Maiden, there is something more
Than raiment to adore;
Thou must have more than a dress,
More than any mode or mould,
More than mortal loveliness,
To captivate the cold.
Bow the knightly when they bow,
To a star behind the brow,—
Not to marble, not to dust,
But to that which warms them;
Not to contour nor to bust,
But to that which forms them,—
Not to languid lid nor lash,
Satin fold nor purple sash,
But unto the living flash
So mysteriously hid
Under lash and under lid.
But, vanity of vanities,—
If the red-rose in a young cheek lies,
Fatal disguise!
For the most terrible lances
Of the true, true knight
Are his bold eyebeams;
And every time that he opens his eyes,
The falsehood that he looks on dies.
If the heavenly light be latent,
It can need no earthly patent.
Unbeholden unto art—
Fashion or lore,
Scrip or store,
Earth or ore—
Be thy heart,
Which was music from the start,
Music, music to the core!
Music, which, though voiceless,
Can create
Both form and fate,
As Petrarch could a sonnet
That, taking flesh upon it,
Spirit-noiseless,
Doth the same inform and fill
With a music sweeter still!
Lives and breathes and palpitates,
Moves and moulds and animates,
And sleeps not from its duty
Till the maid in whom 'tis pent—
