Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the warm lustre of thy features — caught
From contemplation — where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair —
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,
That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought —
I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care.
With such an aspect, by his colours blent,
When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,
( Except that thou hast nothing to repent )
The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn —
Such seem'st thou — but how much more excellent!
With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn.