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An Ideal
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I ofttimes see her face here in the gloom,
When dreaming by my fire as dreamers dream
I watch the flickering fire-lights, till they seem,
Like magic shuttles on a shadowy loom,
To weave strange pictures in the dusky room.
For her face 'mid the others there I find;
It thrills me with a sense all undefined
Vague as the fragrance of an old perfume.Her hair, the light that shimmers on the sea,
Her wistful mouth, a red bud not half blown,
Her tender eyes, a cloudless summer sky,
Flash on my sight, a glimpse of rapture nigh,
Then fade away and leave me here alone...
Her heart, but Love himself holds that in fee.
Arthur Boyd Houghton (1836-1875) |
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See also
Tate (London)
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