TRUE WOMAN

To be a sweetness more desired than Spring;

A bodily beauty more acceptable

Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell;

To be an essence more environing

Than wine's drained juice; a music ravishing

More than the passionate pulse of Philomel;—

To be all this‘ neath one soft bosom's swell

That is the flower of life:— how strange a thing!

How strange a thing to be what Man can know

But as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screen

Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow;

Closely withheld, as all things most unseen,—

The wave-bowered pearl, the heart-shaped seal of green

That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.