Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/403



herald is not speech— His fear-fraught tongue is mute— His presence is bewrayed By blushes deep that shoot Athwart the conscious brow, And mantle on the cheek, Then fleet for tints of snow Which soft confusion speak; Thus red and white have place By turns on true love's face.

Love vaunteth not his worth In gaudy, glozing phrase, His home is not in breast Where thought of worldling stays; In modest loyaltie His fountain doth abide; In bosom greatly good The lucid pulses tide That ebb and flow there ever, Till soul and body sever.