I fill this cup to one made up <br />Of loveliness alone, <br />A woman, of her gentle sex <br />The seeming paragon; <br />To whom the better elements <br />And kindly stars have given <br />A form so fair, that, like the air, <br />'T is less of earth than heaven. <br /> <br />Her every tone is music's own, <br />Like those of morning birds, <br />And something more than melody <br />Dwells ever in her words ; <br />The coinage of her heart are they, <br />And from her lips each flows, <br />As one may see the burdened bee <br />Forth issue from the rose. <br /> <br />Affections are as thoughts to her, <br />The measures of her hours; <br />Her feelings have the fragrancy, <br />The freshness of young flowers; <br />And lovely passions, changing oft, <br />So fill her, she appears <br />The image of themselves by turns, <br />The idol of past years! <br /> <br />Of her bright face one glance will trace <br />A picture on the brain, <br />And of her voice in echoing hearts <br />A sound must long remain ; <br />But memory, such as mine of her, <br />So very much endears, <br />When death is nigh my latest sigh <br />Will not be life's, but hers. <br /> <br />I fill this cup to one made up <br />Of loveliness alone, <br />A woman, of her gentle sex <br />The seeming paragon. <br />Her health ! and would on earth there stood <br />Some more of such a frame, <br />That life might be all poetry, <br />And weariness a name.<br /><br />Edward Coote Pinkney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-health/
