The Portrait

She sends her portrait, as a swallow,

To show that her sweet spring will follow;

Until she comes herself, to share

With me a pillow and her hair.

To this fine portrait of my Dear,

With nothing but dead matter near,

I whisper words of love, and kiss

The cardboard dewy with my bliss.

This is her hair, which I will bind

Around my knuckles, when inclined

To bandage them in skeins of gold.

These are her lips, in paper mould,

Which when I touch appear to move,

As conscious of my burning love.

These are her eyes, now hard and set,

And opened wide, which Love will shut.

Lord, is my kiss too poor and weak

To make this portrait move and speak,

And close these eyes in fear of this

Strong love of mine, half bite, half kiss!

This kiss that would in fierce delight

Burn on her soft white flesh, and bite

Like a black fly when, stiff and old,

He’s blind, and dying of the cold!

Now, while I rest awhile from kissing,

My room looks lonely with her missing.

Now empty seems that chair, where she

Could sit this night and smile to see

Her own light fingers work with grace

Straight cotton into cobweb lace;

Or when they rub that small gold band

That makes her mine, on her left hand.

O that my love were sitting there,

Before me, in that empty chair;

Rocking the love-light, where it lies

Cradled for joy in her two eyes.

Till in the flesh she comes to kiss,

Be happy, man, that she sends this-

Her own dear portrait, as a swallow,

To show her that sweet spring will follow.