I WAS a painter; if I lov'd
Her glorious face too much,
It was that thought had carv'd its lines,--
I worshipp'd it as such:
Hour by hour I gaz'd on her,
And trembled at her touch.

The earnest fire of her deep eyes
Burnt all her thoughts in me,
Each smile that trembled round her mouth
Struck me inwardly:
Her voice went shivering through my heart
Like a spheral harmony.

Thus soul and gesture blended were,
(Such Truth is truest Art);
Her soul was as a shrine, wherein
My hope was set apart;
And every thread of her golden hair
Was twisted about my heart.

And oftentimes I could not speak,
Because my reverence fill'd me so
That when I strove her pause to break
The words came falteringly and slow;
It seem'd as though my thought met hers,
And the double current would not flow.

So she to me was sanctified,
A symbol full of meanings holy,
The dove sat brooding by her side
With eyes unstain'd by melancholy;
Her face was fill'd with a woman's pride,
And my spirit bow'd before her wholly.

Oh! fear sometimes possessing me
Lest I were left and she were taken,
'How could I paint again,' I said,
'For eyes which would no more awaken?'
Great God!--Thou hast Eternity
For every love by Time unshaken.