TO ——, IN HER SEVENTIETH YEAR
SUCH age how beautiful! O Lady bright, Whose mortal lineaments seem all refined By favouring Nature and a saintly Mind To something purer and more exquisite Than flesh and blood; whene’er thou meet’st my sight, When I behold thy blanched unwithered cheek, Thy temples fringed with locks of gleaming white, And head that droops because the soul is meek, Thee with the welcome Snowdrop I compare; That child of winter, prompting thoughts that climb 10 From desolation toward the genial prime; Or with the Moon conquering earth’s misty air, And filling more and more with crystal light As pensive Evening deepens into night. 1827.