Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, <br />And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush <br />Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, <br />My heart would wish away that ruder glow: <br />And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes---but, oh! <br />While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, <br />And into mine my mother's weakness rush, <br />Soft as the last drops round Heaven's airy bow. <br />For, though thy long dark lashes low depending, <br />The soul of melancholy Gentleness <br />Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending, <br />Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; <br />At once such majesty with sweetness blending, <br />I worship more, but cannot love thee less.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-to-genevra/
