James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784–1859)

(On Modelling my Bust)

AH, Marian mine, the face you look on now

Is not exactly like my wedding day’s;

Sunk is its cheek, deeper-retired its gaze,

Less white and smooth its temple-flattened brow.

Sorrow has been there with his silent plough,

And strait, stern hand. No matter, if it raise

Aught that affection fancies, it may praise,

Or make me worthier of Apollo’s bough.

Loss, after all,—such loss especially,—

Is transfer, change, but not extinction,—no;

Part in our children’s apple cheeks I see;

And, for the rest, while you look at me so,

Take care you do not smile it back to me,

And miss the copied furrows as you go.