EYES with the same blue witchery as those <br />Of Psyche, which caught Love in his own wiles; <br />Lips of the breath and hue of the red rose, <br />That move but with kind words, and sweetest smiles; <br />A power of motion and of look, whose art <br />Throws, silently, around the wildest heart <br />The net it would not break; a form which vies <br />With that the Grecian imaged in his mind, <br />And gazed upon in dreams, and sighed to find <br />His breathing marble could not realize. <br /> <br />Know ye this picture? There is one alone <br />Can call its penciled lineaments her own. <br />She whom, at morning, when the summer air <br />Wanders, delighted, o'er her face of flowers, <br />And lingers in the ringlets of her hair, <br />We deem the Hebe of Jove's banquet hours; <br />She who, at evening, when her fingers press <br />The harp, and wake its harmonies divine, <br />Seems sweetest-voiced and loveliest of the Nine, <br />The minstrel of the bowers of happiness. <br />She whom the Graces nurtured— at her birth, <br />The sea-born Goddess, and the Huntress maid, <br />Beings whose beauty is not of the earth, <br />Came from their myrtle home, and forest shade, <br />Blending immortal joy with mortal mirth: <br />And Dian said, 'Fair sister, be she mine <br />'In her heart's purity, in beauty thine.' <br />The smiling infant listened, and obeyed.<br /><br />Fitz-Greene Halleck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-italian-2/
