TO A BEAUTY

Above thy azure pupil, drooping low,
Thy languid eyelid, falling drowsily,
Is like the pure and candid, driven snow
Upon the violets heaped high.
I ne'er have slept a sleep from sorrow free:
                    Be happier than I.

Thy voice, when lifted up in maiden prayer,
Is like the black-bird's song on India's shore,
Which, perched on some pagoda fair,
Sings vesper carols, soft as any sigh.
This prayer I send to heaven—nothing more:
                    Be happier than I.

Thy breath is like the lily's fragrant scent
Upon the banks of Arno's storied flood,
Such flowers as bloom among the rushes, bent
Low by the gentle zephyr wafting by.
I sense it not—nor any earthly good:
                    Be happier than I.

Love is a spirit formed of fiery air,
Who takes his guidance from the silent night,
And feeds alike on mortal's tears and prayer.
Hidden, thy crimson lips he hovers nigh.
Let him grant thee the bliss and me the blight:
                    Be happier than I.

Fair are thy lovely, youthful, dawning hours
As field of roses in the Orient.
I begged an angel for a gift of flowers;
He gave them me thy brow to beautify.
I said the while the wreathed crown I bent:
                    Be happier than I.

Thy tender gaze suggests the turtledove.
Like poppy of the desert wilderness,
Thou causest ecstasy of frantic love,
Sweet houri fallen from a topaz sky.
My fate is hard, and bitter my distress:
                    Be happier than I.