A Photograph
When in this room I turn in pondering paceAnd find thine eyes upon me where I stand,Led on, as by Enemo’s silken strand,I come and gaze and gaze upon thy face.
Framed round by silence, poised on pearl-white graceOf curving throat, too sweet for beaded band,It seems as if some wizard’s magic wandHad wrought thee for the love of all the race.
Dear face, that will not turn about to seeThe tulips, glorying in the casement sun,Or, other days, the drizzled raindrops run
Down the damp walls, but follow only me,Would that Pygmalion’s goddess might be wonTo change this lifeless image into thee!