Ah! let me look upon thy face,
    Fling back thy clustering hair;
It is a happiness to gaze
    On any thing so fair.

'Tis such spring-morning loveliness—
    The blushing and the bright—
Beneath whose sway, unconsciously,
    The heaviest heart grows light.

The crimson flushing up the rose
    When some fresh wind has past,
Parting the boughs—just such a hue
    Upon thy cheek is cast.

Thy golden curls, where sunshine dwells
    As in a summer home;
The brow whose snow is pure and white
    As that of ocean foam.

For grief has thrown no shadow there,
    And worldliness no stain;
It is as only flowers could grow
    In such a charmed domain.

I would thy fate were in my hands:
    I'd bid it but allow
Thy future to be like thy past,
    And keep thee just as now.
⁠L. E. L.