The Gentle Lady
So beautiful, so dainty-sweet,
So like a lyre’s delightful touch—
A beauty perfect, ripe, complete
That art’s own hand could only smutch
And nature’s self not better much.
So beautiful, so purely wrought,
Like a fair missal penned with hymns,
So gentle, so surpassing thought—
A beauteous soul in lovely limbs,
A lantern that an angel trims.
So simple-sweet, without a sin,
Like gentle music gently timed,
Like rhyme-words coming aptly in,
To round a moonéd poem rhymed
To tunes the laughing bells have chimed.