Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/280

 They'd own themselves outdone, When thy pure brow And neck of snow Gleamed in the morning sun.

Could shining brooks, By amorous looks, Be taught a voice so rare, Then, every sound That murmured round Would whisper, "Thou art fair!"

Could winds be fraught With pensive thought At midnight's solemn hour, Then every wood, In gleeful mood, Would own thy beauty's power!

And, could the sky Behold thine eye, So filled with love and light, In jealous haste, Thou soon wert placed To star, the cope of Night!