A FACE

If one could have that little head of hers
Painted upon a background of pure gold,
Such as the Tuscan’s early art prefers! 
No shade encroaching on the matchless mould
Of those two lips, which should be opening soft
In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,
For that spoils all:  but rather as if aloft
Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff’s
Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss
And capture ’twixt the lips apart for this. 
Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,
How it should waver on the pale gold ground
Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts! 
I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts
Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb
Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb: 
But these are only massed there, I should think,
Waiting to see some wonder momently
Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky
(That’s the pale ground you’d see this sweet face by),
All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye
Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.

* * * * *

SONGS FROM PIPPA PASSES

Day! 
Faster and more fast,
O’er night’s brim, day boils at last: 
Boils, pure gold, o’er the cloud-cup’s brim. 
Where spurting and suppressed it lay,
For not a froth-flake touched the rim
Of yonder gap in the solid gray
Of the eastern cloud, an hour away;
But forth one wavelet, then another, curled,
Till the whole sunrise, not to be suppressed, 10
Rose, reddened, and its seething breast
Flickered in bounds, grew gold, then overflowed the world.

    All service ranks the same with God: 
    If now, as formerly He trod
    Paradise, His presence fills
    Our earth, each only as God wills
    Can work—­God’s puppets, best and worst,
    Are we:  there is no last nor first.

      The year’s at the spring
      And day’s at the morn:  20
      Morning’s at seven;
      The hillside’s dew-pearled;
      The lark’s on the wing;
      The snail’s on the thorn: 
      God’s in His heaven—­
      All’s right with the world!

Give her but a least excuse to love me! 
  When—­where—­
How—­can this arm establish her above me,
  If fortune fixed her as my lady there, 30
There already, to eternally reprove me? 
  ("Hist!”—­said Kate the queen;
But “Oh,” cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
  “’Tis only a page that carols unseen,
Crumbling your hounds their messes!”)

Is she wronged?—­To the rescue of her honour,
  My heart! 
Is she poor?—­What costs it to be styled a donor? 
  Merely an earth to cleave, a sea to part. 
But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her! 
  ("Nay, list!”—­bade Kate the queen; 41
And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses,
  “’Tis only a page that carols unseen,
Fitting your hawks their jesses!”)