On Huntingdon’s “Miranda”
The storm hath blown thee a lover, sweet,And laid him kneeling at thy feet.But,—guerdon rich for favor rare!The wind hath all thy holy hairTo kiss and to sing through and to flareLike torch-flames in the passionate air,About thee, O Miranda.
Eyes in a blaze, eyes in a daze,Bold with love, cold with amaze,Chaste-thrilling eyes, fast-filling eyesWith daintiest tears of love’s surprise,Ye draw my soul unto your blueAs warm skies draw the exhaling dew,Divine eyes of Miranda.
And if I were yon stolid stone,Thy tender arm doth lean upon,Thy touch would turn me to a heart,And I would palpitate and start,—Content, when thou wert gone, to beA dumb rock by the lonesome seaForever, O Miranda.
Baltimore, 1874.