Sonnet, To Genevra
Thine eyes` blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,
And the wan lustre of thy features caught
From contemplation-where serenely wrought,
Seems Sorrow`s softness charm`d from its despair--
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air
That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught
With mines of unalloy`d and stainless thought--
I should have deem`d thee doom`d 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.
