722. Her Gifts

HIGH grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal

Some wood-born wonder’s sweet simplicity;

A glance like water brimming with the sky

Or hyacinth-light where forest-shadows fall;

Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral

The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply

All music and all silence held thereby;

Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;

A round reared neck, meet column of Love’s shrine

To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;

Hands which for ever at Love’s bidding be,

And soft-stirred feet still answering to his sign:—

These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o’er.

Breathe low her name, my soul; for that means more.