Classic Poem

SEEN IN AN ALBUM

Thou , prithee what art thou,
With thy forward-bending brow,
And thy half-uncurtained eyes!
Sweet orbs! and yet within
Fear I much some baby sin
Nursed by Passion lies!

Ay! such cymar of snow
Oft veils a nun I know,
And thou may'st indeed be one;
Yet her cymar I swear
Never saw I novice wear
So unlike a nun!

True! that's a fairer waist
Than could e'er have been embraced
Save by its own silken band;
Yet, Maiden as thou art,
'Neath it throbs no little heart
That it may be spanned!

Pure thou as any saint,
Art, perchance, from earthly taint,
And an angel fit to be;
But, prithee, if 'tis given
That I too should go to Heaven,
Stay thou far from me!

By the Pride angels fell,
And by Love they might as well,
'Tis in sooth the apter way!
Sweet, then bestow thy love
On some icy Saint above,
Not on me, I pray!