Sonnet XXXI: Her Gifts
High grace, the dower of queens; and therewithal
Some wood—born wonder’s sweet simplicity;
A glance like water brimming with the sky
Or hyacinth—light where forest—shadows fall;
Such thrilling pallor of cheek as doth enthral
The heart; a mouth whose passionate forms imply
All music and all silence held thereby;
Deep golden locks, her sovereign coronal;
A round reared neck, meet column of Love’s shrine
To cling to when the heart takes sanctuary;
Hands which for ever at Love’s bidding be,
And soft—stirred feet still answering to his sign:—
These are her gifts, as tongue may tell them o’er.
Breathe low her name, my soul; for that means more.
