Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, <br />And the wan lustre of thy features caught <br />From contemplation-where serenely wrought, <br />Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair-- <br />Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air <br />That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught <br />With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought-- <br />I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. <br />With such an aspect, by his colours blent, <br />When from his beauty-breathing pencil born <br />(Except that thou hast nothing to repent), <br />The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn-- <br />Such seem'st thou--but how much more excellent! <br />With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue scorn. <br /> <br />December 17, 1813.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-to-genevra-3/
