True Woman


To be a sweetness more desired than Spring;
 A bodily beauty more acceptable
 Than the wild rose-tree's arch that crowns the fell;
To be an essence more environing
Than wine's drained juice; a music ravishing
 More than the passionate pulse of Philomel;—
 To be all this 'neath one soft bosom's swell
That is the flower of life:—how strange a thing!

How strange a thing to be what Man can know
 But as a sacred secret! Heaven's own screen
Hides her soul's purest depth and loveliest glow;
 Closely withheld, as all things most unseen,—
 The wave-bowered pearl,—the heart-shaped seal of green
That flecks the snowdrop underneath the snow.
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