|
|
On A Portrait Of I. F., Painted By Margaret Gillies
By William Wordsworth
We gaze, nor grieve to think that we must die,
But that the precious love this friend hath sown
Within our hearts, the love whose flower hath blown
Bright as if heaven were ever in its eye,
Will pass so soon from human memory;
And not by strangers to our blood alone,
But by our best descendants be unknown,
Unthought of this may surely claim a sigh.
Yet, blessed Art, we yield not to dejection;
Thou against Time so feelingly dost strive.
Where'er, preserved in this most true reflection,
An image of her soul is kept alive,
Some lingering fragrance of the pure affection,
Whose flower with us will vanish, must survive.
Extra Info:
Rydal Mount,
New Year's Day, 1840.
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 712 times.
|
|
