Part 8 — TO IANTHÉ.

Sweetest Ianthé, I can read thy features,

And tell the latent meaning of each look —

Thou most inscrutable of earth’s bright creatures;

Thou unread riddle in an open book —

To me thou art a clear and crystal brook,

And I need be no wonder-raising seer

To tell thee that thy brow of Parian stone

Is radiant with pure thought; that deep and clear

Thine eye is lighted from the soul alone.

That on thy tranquil nostril Courage sleeping

Heeds not the fears that Reason smiles to see;

That from the dimples round thy mouth are peeping

Sweetness and mirth and heavenly charity —

Thy glances—nay, look up—I’ll read them silently.