This faint resemblance of thy charms, <br />(Though strong as mortal art could give,) <br />My constant heart of fear disarms, <br />Revives my hopes, and bids me live. <br /> <br />Here, I can trace the locks of gold <br />Which round thy snowy forehead wave; <br />The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, <br />The lips, which made me Beauty's slave. <br /> <br />Here I can trace---ah, no! that eye, <br />Whose azure floats in liquid fire, <br />Must all the painter's art defy, <br />And bid him from the task retire. <br /> <br />Here, I behold its beauteous hue; <br />But where's the beam so sweetly straying, <br />Which gave a lustre to its blue, <br />Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? <br /> <br />Sweet copy! far more dear to me, <br />Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, <br />Than all the living forms could be, <br />Save her who plac'd thee next my heart. <br /> <br />She plac'd it, sad, with needless fear, <br />Lest time might shake my wavering soul, <br />Unconscious that her image there <br />Held every sense in fast control. <br /> <br />Thro' hours, thro' years, thro' time, 'twill cheer--- <br />My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; <br />In life's last conflict 'twill appear, <br />And meet my fond, expiring gaze.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-mary-on-receiving-her-picture/
