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WOMAN.
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF AN UNKNOWN LADY.
ady, although we have not met,
And may not meet, beneath the sky;
And whether thine are eyes of jet,
Gray, or dark blue, or violet,
Or hazel—Heaven knows, not I;
Whether around thy cheek of rose
A maiden’s glowing locks are curled,
And to some thousand kneeling beaux
Thy frown is cold as winter’s snows,
Thy smile is worth a world;
Or whether, past youth’s joyous strife,
The calm of thought is on thy brow,
And thou art in thy noon of life,
Loving and loved, a happy wife,
And happier mother now—
I know not: but, whate’er thou art,
Whoe’er thou art, were mine the spell,
To call Fate’s joys or blunt his dart,
There should not be one hand or heart
But served or wished thee well.
