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Poem by Thomas Gent
A Sketch from Life
She sat in beauty, like some form of nymph Or naiad, on the mossy, purpled bank Of her wild woodland stream, that at her feet Linger'd, and play'd, and dimpled, as in love. Or like those shapes that on the western clouds Spread gold-dropp'd plumes, and sing to harps of pearl, And teach the evening winds their melody: How shall I tell her beauty?-for the eye, Fix'd on the sun, is blinded by its beam. One glance, and then no more, upon that brow Brighter than marble shining through those curls, Richer than hyacinths when they wave their bells In the low breathing of the twilight wind.- One glance upon that lip, beside whose hue The morning rose would sicken and grow pale, 'Till it was waked again by the soft breath That steals in music from those lips of love. Wert thou a statue I could pine for thee, But in thy living beauty there is awe; The sacredness of modesty enshrines The ruby lip, bright brow, and beaming eye;- I dare but worship what I must not love.
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