A Picture: [After Wither]

SWEET child, I prithee stand,
While I try my novel hand
At a portrait of thy face,
With its simple childish grace.
Cheeks as soft and finely hued
As the fleecy cloud imbued
With the roseate tint of morn
Ere the golden sun is born : —
Lips that like a rose-hedge curl,
Guarding well the gates of pearl,
— What care I for pearly gate ?
By the rose-hedge will I wait:—
Chin that rounds with outline fine,
Melting off in hazy line;
As in misty summer noon,
Or beneath the harvest moon,
Curves the smooth and sandy shore,
Flowing off in dimness hoar: —
Eyes that roam like timid deer
Sheltered by a thicket near,
Peeping out between the boughs,
Or that, trusting, safely browse : —
Arched o’er all the forehead pure,
Giving us the prescience sure
Of an ever-growing light;
As in deepening summer night,
Over fields to ripen soon
Hangs the silver crescent moon.