Page:The complete poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar.pdf/71


 * Doubt by dishonesty is taught;
 * So loved I boldly, fearing naught.

I did not walk this lowly earth;
 * Mine was a newer, higher sphere,
 * Where youth was long and life was dear,

And all save love was little worth.

Her likeness! Would that I might limn it,
 * As Love did, with enduring art;

Nor dust of days nor death may dim it,
 * Where it lies graven on my heart,
 * Of this sad fabric of my life a part.

I would that I might paint her now
 * As I beheld her in that day,
 * Ere her first bloom had passed away,

And left the lines upon her brow.

A face serene that, beaming brightly,
 * Disarmed the hot sun's glances bold.

A foot that kissed the ground so lightly,
 * He frowned in wrath and deemed her cold,
 * But loved her still though he was old.

A form where every maiden grace
 * Bloomed to perfection's richest flower,—
 * The statued pose of conscious power,

Like lithe-limbed Dian's of the chase.

Beneath a brow too fair for frowning,
 * Like moon-lit deeps that glass the skies

Till all the hosts above seem drowning,
 * Looked forth her steadfast hazel eyes,
 * With gaze serene and purely wise,

And over all, her tresses rare,
 * Which, when, with his desire grown weak,
 * The Night bent down to kiss her cheek,

Entrapped and held him captive there,

This was Ione; a spirit finer
 * Ne'er burned to ash its house of clay;

A soul instinct with fire diviner
 * Ne'er fled athwart the face of day,
 * And tempted Time with earthly stay.

Her loveliness was not alone
 * Of face and form and tresses' hue;