And Michal's face
Still wears that quiet and peculiar light
Like the dim circlet floating 'round a pearl.
* * * * *
And yet her calm sweet countenance,
Though saintly, was not sad; for she would sing
Alone ... bird-like,
Not dreaming you were near.--Her carols dropt
In flakes through that old leafy bower.

_Paracelsus._


... Such a lady, cheeks so round and lips so red,--
On her neck the small face buoyant like a bell-flower on its bed.

_Lyric._


There's a woman like a dew-drop, she's so purer than the purest;
And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest;
And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre
Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster,
Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble;
Then her voice's music ... call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!

_A Blot on the 'Scutcheon._


How twinks thine eye, my Love,