Page:The Venetian Bracelet.pdf/20

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A crimson bodice, and the skirt of blue So short, the fairy ankle was in view; The arm was hidden by the long loose sleeve, But the small hand was snow; around her hair A crimson net, such as the peasants weave, Bound the rich curls, and left the temples bare. She wore the rustic dress, but there was not Aught else in her that mark'd the rustic's lot: Her bearing seem'd too stately, though subdued By all that makes a woman's gentlest mood— The parting hour of love. And there they leant, Mirror'd below in the clear element That roll'd along, with wild shrubs overhung, And colour'd blossoms that together clung— That peasant girl, that high-born cavalier, Whispering those gentle words so sweet to hear,