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of perfect beauty, such as haunts The poet's dream, what time the shadowy limes Have their light leaves stirred by some gentle wind; And their soft bloom, their small, pale yellow flowers, Grow golden in the sunshine of the noon. Then shapes are flitting round, which only wear The likeness of our earth, but scarce its look; So spiritual the light which gives a soul To each fair face, and to each starry eye. This face is such a one: the open brow (The parted hair obscures it not) is proud, As if unconscious of life's meaner things; And on the lip is scorn—but generous scorn— Which blends with sweetness; and the loveliest smile, So soft, so gracious, and so feminine, Is on the dimpled cheek. Methinks the sculptor's skill Has caught, most happily, the fine ideal Both of the heart and mind.