Sonnet. to Genevra

Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,

And the warm lustre of thy features--caught

From contemplation--where serenely wrought,

Seems Sorrow's softness charmed from its despair--

Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air,

That--but I know thy blessed bosom fraught

With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought--

I should have deemed thee doomed to earthly care.

With such an aspect, by his colours blent,

When from his beauty-breathing pencil born,

(Except that _thou_ hast nothing to repent)

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn--

Such seem'st thou--but how much more excellent!

With nought Remorse can claim--nor Virtue scorn.