If one could have that little head of hers <br />Painted upon a background of pure gold, <br />Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers! <br />No shade encroaching on the matchless mould <br />Of those two lips, which should be opening soft <br />In the pure profile; not as when she laughs, <br />For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft <br />Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's <br />Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss <br />And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this. <br />Then her little neck, three fingers might surround, <br />How it should waver on the pale gold ground <br />Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! <br />I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts <br />Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb <br />Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: <br />But these are only massed there, I should think, <br />Waiting to see some wonder momently <br />Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky <br />(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by), <br />All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye <br />Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.<br /><br />Robert Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-face-5/
