_The Triad._


How rich that forehead's calm expanse!
How bright that heaven-directed glance!

_Poems of the Affections, 17._


Softly she treads, as if her foot were loth
To crush the mountain dew-drops,--soon to melt
On the flower's breast; as if she felt
That flowers themselves, whate'er their hue,
With all their fragrance, all their glistening,
Call to the heart for inward listening.

_The Triad._


Let other bards of angels sing,
Bright suns without a spot;
But thou art no such perfect thing;
Rejoice that thou art not!

Heed not though none should call thee fair;
So, Mary, let it be
If naught in loveliness compare
With what thou art to me.

True beauty dwells in deep retreats,