A movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,
A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,
'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.
A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers
Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating.
A graceful, modest ardour—yet at times
Most grave and quiet majesty, as one
Who knows—that rarest knowledge—her own worth.
A childlike nature, index of a soul
Where goodness is intuitive—not put on
To gain false praises for a falser virtue.
A bashful softness when she tells her love
A tremour as of guilt, with low‐drooped eyes
And red‐rose cheek, did not her brow serene,
Like to a temple of all holy things,
Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,
Enduring all with angel smiles of love.
This, the celestial beauty of my Circé
This is the magic potion which has changed
Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!