A FACE
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f one could have that little head of hersPainted upon a background of pure gold,Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!No shade encroaching on the matchless mouldOf those two lips, which should be opening softIn the pure profile; not as when she laughs,For that spoils all: but rather as if aloftYon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff'sBurden of honey-colored buds to kissAnd capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,How it should waver on the pale gold groundUp to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!I know, Correggio loves to mass, in riftsOf heaven, his angel faces, orb on orbBreaking its outline, burning shades absorb:But these are only massed there, I should think,Waiting to see some wonder momentlyGrow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eyeWhich fears to lose the wonder, should it wink. * * * * *
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