Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Thomas Woolner b. 1825My Beautiful Lady
I
Her brow is wan, and bound by simple hair;
Her spirit sits aloof, and high,
But glances from her tender eye
In sweetness droopingly.
My life is stirr’d when she breaks on my view;
Her beauty grants my will no choice
But silent awe, till she rejoice
My longing with her voice.
Oft makes me feel as strong wine would a child;
And though her hand be airy light
Of touch, it moves me with its might,
As would a sudden fright.
Tremble with might suppress’d, before he dips,
In vigilance, scarce more intense
Than I, when her voice holds my sense
Contented in suspense.
Makes it far nobler than it was before:
As where the sun strikes life will gush,
And what is pale receive a flush,
Rich hues, a richer blush.
Not meaning her, to me sounds lax misuse;
I love none but my Lady’s name;
Moud, Grace, Rose, Marian, all the same,
Are harsh, or blank and tame.
Swim where a glory on the water shone:
There ends of willow braches ride,
Quivering in the flowing tide,
By the deep river’s side.
As the sunn’d bosom of a humming bird
At each pant lifts some fiery hue,
Fierce gold, bewildering green or blue;
The same, yet ever new.