George Henry Boker Poems

Her prudish foot, seen rarely as a nun,
Is steep and narrow, flexible as steel,
Touching her pathway but at toe and heel,
...

Such of her beauties as the world may see,
Whose eyes escort her eagerly around,
Lackeying her way with homage too profound
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Again I touch thee, vexing instrument,
My hard and rarely-mastered Tuscan lute!
Though faulty poets of thy worth are mute,
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Thus gracious ever is my darling's mind;
Forgiving not alone the guilt which dyes
My features scarlet, when my history lies
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A golden circle for my lady's hand,
Crowned with a ruby 'twixt the outspread wings
Of that eternal globe which brooding swings
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If any comfort lies within the zone
Of ruddy gold that round thy finger clings;
If from the ruby's steady radiance springs
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There blew a breeze across the flowers, that said,
'Love is the sweetest thing which mortals know!'
And so I launched my shallop in the glow
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Ah, lute, how well I know each tone of thee,
From shrillest treble unto solemn bass,
The power of every fret, the time and place
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Hark! in that tone I heard my lady sigh,
Sigh with the burden of some longing pain,
Some dim half-thought, that will not come again;
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'Tis not in hollow wood and tinkling wire
To be the wonder I would have them be;
Contrive my spells however cunningly,
...