Page:Modern poets and poetry of Spain.djvu/386

340 I cannot see her beaming eyes, Nor her clear brow above, Nor her face with its rosy dyes, Nor yet her smile of love: I cannot see the virgin flush That heightens her cheek's glow, The enchantments of that maiden blush, She is but fifteen now.

Nor can my searching eyes behold Her form scarce wrapp'd about; Nor from the flowing garment's fold Her white foot peeping out; As on some gentle river's spring, To glide the foam between, Spread forth her snowy floatsome wing, The stately swan is seen.

Nor can I see her white neck shine, Or shoulders as they part; Nor from her face can I divine Her restlessness of heart; While like a guard, too watchful o'er, The grated bars I find; Audacious love is there before, Poor virtue is behind.