Sir Henry Taylor

(1800-1886 / England)

A Perfect Woman

She was a creature framed by love divine
For mortal love to muse a life away
In pondering her perfections; so unmoved
Amidst the world's contentions, if they touched
No vital chord nor troubled what she loved,
Philosophy might look her in the face,
And like a hermit stopping to the well'
That yields him sweet. refreshment, might therein
See but his own serenity reflected

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