A Portrait
How shall I write of you, little friend,To my father on the River of Serenity?I will tell him of your twenty yellow curlsTumbling in a cascade about your shoulders;Your bright mouth and fine brow,Lit by yet brighter eyes,Where fireflies dance;How in your cheeks you holdThe colours of the flower before its leaves unclose;How the tones of your voice, sounding in my ears,Float before my eyes like strings of lanterns;How, when I look closely upon you,I see my thoughts like a white river in your eyes;How, as I walk down the street where you have trod,The very stones are to me the smiles that you scatter as you pass.How your look thrills my heart as a guitar thrills to the touch.
And I will tell him that you are not for me,For you are white and I am yellow;Unless, perchance, shame and disgrace fall upon you,As it falls upon some girls of this quarter,And your neighbours and friends pass by the other way.Then, perhaps, it would be permitted to meTo render service to you.