A Face

1If one could have that little head of hers

2Painted upon a background of pure gold,

3Such as the Tuscan's early art prefers!

4No shade encroaching on the matchless mould

5Of those two lips, which should be opening soft

6In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,

7For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft

8Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staff's

9Burden of honey-colored buds to kiss

10And capture 'twixt the lips apart for this.

11Then her little neck, three fingers might surround,

12How it should waver on the pale gold ground

13Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!

14I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts

15Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb

16Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:

17But these are only massed there, I should think,

18Waiting to see some wonder momently

19Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky

20(That's the pale ground you'd see this sweet face by),

21All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye

22Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.