You are very fair, Felice, wondrous fair,
And the light deep in your eyes
Is more soft than summer skies,
And rare roses in your cheek
Play with lilies hide-and-seek,—
Play as Pleasure plays with Care.
And your throat is white, Felice, wondrous white,
White as sifted snow, I wis,
Ere the sun hath stol'n a kiss,
High up starry mountain-heights,
Or as in rich moonful nights
Parian baths in Cynthia's light.
And, Felice, your rippling waves of soft hair,
In their mystic depths aye hold
Shade and shimmer of red gold,
Like a halo round your face,
Lending you another grace
From the sunbeams shining there.
And your voice is sweet, Felice, wondrous sweet,
As the murmur of the sea,
After long captivity,
To a sailor far inland,—
Or as summer flowers fanned
By soft zephyrs blown o'er wheat.
But so stony, fair Felice, is your heart,
That I wonder oft, I own,
If you 're not mere carven stone—
While my soul your charms enthrall—
Just some chiseled Goddess tall:
Merely Beauty, Stone, and Art.