SHE walks in beauty, like the night | |
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; | |
And all that 's best of dark and bright | |
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: | |
Thus mellow'd to that tender light | |
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. | |
One shade the more, one ray the less, | |
Had half impair'd the nameless grace | |
Which waves in every raven tress, | |
Or softly lightens o'er her face; | |
Where thoughts serenely sweet express | |
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. | |
|
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, | |
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, | |
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, | |
But tell of days in goodness spent, | |
A mind at peace with all below, | |
A heart whose love is innocent! |
Wow! this poem has potential. But Lord B had a poetic advantage speaking only in hyperbole. He selldom used the vernacular. I mean like the phrase "Meet in her aspect and her eyes..." None of the women I know have an "aspect" nowadays, though some have tatoos. Anyway I can polish this poem up for the Lord Byron, if he wishes, I mean wisheth.
ReplyDelete