A PORTRAIT
Reading edition
A sadness lingers round her lips, A shadow ever haunts her eyes; Like dusky pools are they on which The mystery of the moonlight lies. Her voice is sweet, but grave in tone, No ring hath it of joyous mirth; Yet somehow when she speaks, methinks A benediction falls on earth. A sense of rest her presence brings, She moves with such a quiet grace; And ’tis the pitying soul within Makes tender twilight of her face. Methinks the Virgin-mother must Have looked like this when to her breast The Babe, who was to save a world, With mingled joy and pain she pressed.