The Tri-Portrait
’Twas a rich night in June. The air was all
Fragrance and balm, and the wet leaves were stirred
By the soft fingers of the southern wind,
And caught the light capriciously, like wings
Haunting the greenwood with a silvery sheen.
The stars might not be numbered, and the moon
Exceeding beautiful, went up in heaven,
And took her place in silence, and a hush,
Like the deep Sabbath of the night, came down
And rested upon nature. I was out
With three sweet sisters wandering, and my thoughts
Took color of the moonlight, and of them,
And I was calm and happy. Their deep tones,
Low in the stillness, and by that soft air
Melted to reediness, bore out, like song,
The language of high feelings, and I felt
How excellent is woman when she gives
To the fine pulses of her spirit way.
One was a noble being, with a brow
Ample and pure, and on it her black hair
Was parted, like a raven’s wing on snow.
Her tone was low and sweet, and in her smile
You read intense affections. Her moist eye
Had a most rare benignity; her mouth,
Bland and unshadowed sweetness; and her face
Was full of that mild dignity that gives
A holiness to woman. She was one
Whose virtues blossom daily, and pour out
A fragrance upon all who in her path
Have a blest fellowship. I longed to be
Her brother, that her hand might lie upon
My forehead, and her gentle voice allay
The fever that is at my heart sometimes.
There was a second sister who might witch
An angel from his hymn. I cannot tell
The secret of her beauty. It is more
Than her slight penciled lip, and her arch eye
Laughing beneath its lashes, as if life
Were nothing but a merry mask; ’tis more
Than motion, though she moveth like a fay;
Or music, though her voice is like a reed
Blown by a low south wind; or cunning grace,
Though all she does is beautiful; or thought,
Or fancy, or a delicate sense, though mind
Is her best gift, and poetry her world,
And she will see strange beauty in a flower
As by a subtle vision. I care not
To know how she bewitches; ’tis enough
For me that I can listen to her voice
And dream rare dreams of music, or converse
Upon unwrit philosophy, till I
Am wildered beneath thoughts I cannot bound
And the red lip that breathes them.
On my arm
Leaned an unshadowed girl, who scarcely yet
Had numbered fourteen summers. I know not
How I shall draw her picture– the young heart
Has such a restlessness of change, and each
Of its wild moods so lovely! I can see
Her figure in its rounded beauty now,
With her half-flying step, her clustering hair
Bathing a neck like Hebe’s, and her face
By a glad heart made radiant. She was full
Of the romance of girlhood. The fair world
Was like an unmarred Eden to her eye,
And every sound was music, and the tint
Of every cloud a silent poetry.
Light to thy path, bright creature! I would charm
Thy being if I could, that it should be
Ever as now thou dreamest, and flow on
Thus innocent and beautiful to heaven!
We walked beneath the full and mellow moon
Till the late stars had risen. It was not
In silence, though we did not seem to break
The hush with our low voices; but our thoughts
Stirred deeply at their sources; and when night
Divided us, I slumbered with a peace
Floating about my heart, which only comes
From high communion. I shall never see
That silver moon again without a crowd
Of gentle memories, and a silent prayer,
That when the night of life shall oversteal
Your sky, ye lovely sisters! there may be
A light as beautiful to lead you on.
