A Girl
Michael Field
A Girl,Her soul a deep-wave pearlDim, lucent of all lovely mysteries;A face flowered for heart’s ease,A brow’s grace soft as seasSeen through faint forest-trees:A mouth, the lips apart,Like aspen-leaflets trembling in the breezeFrom her tempestuous heart.Such: and our souls so knit,I leave a page half-writ —The work begunWill be to heaven’s conception done,If she come to it.
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