LINES TO A PORTRAIT, BY A SUPERIOR PERSON

When I bought you for a song,

Years ago — Lord knows how long!—

I was struck — I may be wrong —

By your features,

And — a something in your air

That I could n't quite compare

To my other plain or fair

Fellow creatures.

In your simple, oval frame

You were not well known to fame,

But to me —‘ twas all the same —

Whoe'er drew you;

For your face I can n't forget,

Though I oftentimes regret

That, somehow, I never yet

Saw quite through you.

Yet each morning, when I rise,

I go first to greet your eyes;

And, in turn, YOU scrutinize

My presentment.

And when shades of evening fall,

As you hang upon my wall,

You're the last thing I recall

With contentment.

It is weakness, yet I know

That I never turned to go

Anywhere, for weal or woe,

But I lingered

For one parting, thrilling flash

From your eyes, to give that dash

To the curl of my mustache,

That I fingered.

If to some you may seem plain,

And when people glance again

Where you hang, their lips refrain.

From confession;

Yet they turn in stealth aside,

And I note, they try to hide

How much they are satisfied

In expression.

Other faces I have seen;

Other forms have come between;

Other things I have, I ween,

Done and dared for!

But OUR ties they cannot sever,

And, though I should say it never,

You're the only one I ever

Really cared for!

And you'll still be hanging there

When we're both the worse for wear,

And the silver's on my hair

And off your backing;

Yet my faith shall never pass

In my dear old shaving-glass,

Till my face and yours, alas!

Both are lacking!