Madeline

I never saw aught like to what thou art—A spirit so peculiar in its mould,With so much wildness, and with yet a partOf all the softer beauties we behold:So dark and still at times, thy spirit seemingLike waters sheltered from the shining sun,Hidden in the dim mantle of its dreaming,As if it joyed all earthliness to shun;

And yet again, emerging from its dreamThy soul shines forth, pellucid as the air;And O so lovely and so bright, we deemThat mortal sprite could never be so fair!Thy thoughts in their rare current stilly glidingGlimmer so starrily through thy pure eyes,Revealing glimpses of the heart's wealth hidingWithin their depths, gem-bedded like the skies.

Thy form seems moulded in thy soul's own grace—Adapted to express each subtile thought—So fair and lucid is thy lily face,Thy motion with such witchery is fraught.There is so much in every act of thine,That tells thy soul keepeth an angel guard,Their glorious wings do almost seem to shineA heavenly halo round their lovely ward.

Alas! when I do gaze on thee, my spiritLongeth for Paradise, and vaguely dreams,Wondering if there itself will not inheritSome of such brightness as around thee beams:Surely the music, and the unfading flowers,And forms of light that walk the courts of heaven,Do fill thy visions in thy musing hours,So that to thee their semblance has been given.