Sonnet. To Genevra.
Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,And the warm lustre of thy features--caughtFrom contemplation--where serenely wrought,Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair--Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraughtWith mines of unalloyed and stainless thought--I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care.With such an aspect, by his colours blent,When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,(Except that thou hast nothing to repent)The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn--Such seem'st thou--but how much more excellent!With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue scorn.
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