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372 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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A. P. GRAVES (1846- )
AN IRISH GRACE
F
OR beauty's blaze Let Pagans praise
The features of Aglaia. Admire agape The maiden shape
Consummate in Thalia. Last hail in thee Euphrosyne
Allied the sov'ran powers, Of form and face — No heathen Grace
Can match this Grace of ours.
Blue are her eyes, as though the skies, Were ever blue above them,
And dark their full fringed canopies As if the night-fays wove them.
Two roses kiss to mold her mouth,
Her ear's a lily blossom, Her blush a sunset in the south,
And drifted snow her bosom. |
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