In mockery of the glowing cheek and lip, Whose hue the fairy guardian of the flowers Might never rival when her delicate touch Tinges the rose of springtime. She has not mingled with the hollow world Nor tampered with its mockeries, until all The delicate perceptions of the heart, The innate modesty, the watchful sense Of maiden dignity, are lost within The maze of fashion and the din of crowds. Yet Beauty hath its homage. For the regardful glances of a child. And in the chastened beauty of that eye, And in the beautiful play of that red lip, And in the quiet smile, and in the voice Sweet as the tuneful greeting of a bird To the first flowers of springtime, there is more Than the perfection of the painter's skill Or statuary's moulding.
Mind is there.
No warmth of passion kindles, and no tide Of quick and earnest feeling courses on From the warm heart's pulsations. Within that quiet bosom, which but wait the thrilling of some kindly touch, to flow Like waters from the desert-rock old. Whose letter kills, by thee interpreted Take healthful meanings fitted to our needs, And in the soul's vernacular express The common law of simple righteousness. By their works call him not heretic whose works attest His faith in goodness by no creed confessed. Is done to Christ.