Page:Finden's Gallery.pdf/8

 A hand as only used to wave Its sign to worshipper and slave.— A forehead—but that was too fair To read of aught save beauty there. Beautiful, but thrice wayward, wild, Capricious as a petted child, She was all chance, all change; but now A smile is on her radiant brow,— A moment, and that smile is fled— Contempt and scorn are there instead. Ah, every change of beauty's face And beauty's mood has its own grace.