Poem by George Pope Morris

The Miniature

William was holding in his hand
 The likeness of his wife!
Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand,
 With beauty, grace, and life.
He almost thought it spoke:—he gazed
 Upon the bauble still,
Absorbed, delighted, and amazed,
 To view the artist's skill.

"This picture is yourself, dear Jane—
 'Tis drawn to nature true:
I've kissed it o'er and o'er again,
 It is much like you."
"And has it kissed you back, my dear?"
 "Why—no—my love," said he.
"Then, William, it is very clear
 'Tis not at all LIKE ME!"

1. Silent Grief
2. National Anthem
3. Lines on a Poet
4. Twenty Years Ago
5. Love Thee, Dearest!

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