'A SPANISH GIRL IN REVERIE,' <br /> <br />SHE twirled the string of golden beads, <br />That round her neck was hung,--- <br />My grandsire's gift; the good old man <br />Loved girls when he was young; <br />And, bending lightly o'er the cord, <br />And turning half away, <br />With something like a youthful sigh, <br />Thus spoke the maiden gray:-- <br /> <br />'Well, one may trail her silken robe, <br />And bind her locks with pearls, <br />And one may wreathe the woodland rose <br />Among her floating curls; <br />And one may tread the dewy grass, <br />And one the marble floor, <br />Nor half-hid bosom heave the less, <br />Nor broidered corset more! <br /> <br />'Some years ago, a dark-eyed girl <br />Was sitting in the shade,-- <br />There's something brings her to my mind <br />In that young dreaming maid,-- <br />And in her hand she held a flower, <br />A flower, whose speaking hue <br />Said, in the language of the heart, <br />'Believe the giver true.' <br /> <br />'And, as she looked upon its leaves, <br />The maiden made a vow <br />To wear it when the bridal wreath <br />Was woven for her brow; <br />She watched the flower, as, day by day, <br />The leaflets curled and died; <br />But he who gave it never came <br />To claim her for his bride. <br /> <br />'Oh, many a summer's morning glow <br />Has lent the rose its ray, <br />And many a winter's drifting snow <br />Has swept its bloom away; <br />But she has kept that faithless pledge <br />To this, her winter hour, <br />And keeps it still, herself alone, <br />And wasted like the flower.' <br /> <br />Her pale lip quivered, and the light <br />Gleamed in her moistening eyes;-- <br />I asked her how she liked the tints <br />In those Castilian skies? <br />'She thought them misty,--'t was perhaps <br />Because she stood too near;' <br />She turned away, and as she turned <br />I saw her wipe a tear.<br /><br />Oliver Wendell Holmes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/illustration-of-a-picture/
