Frances Anne Kemble

To a Picture

Oh, serious eyes! how is it that the light,
The burning rays, that mine pour into ye,
Still find ye cold, and dead, and dark as night’€”
Oh, lifeless eyes! can ye not answer me?
Oh, lips! whereon mine own so often dwell,
Hath love’s warm, fearful, thrilling touch, no spell
To waken sense in ye?'€”oh, misery!
Oh, breathless lips! can ye not speak to me?
Thou soulless mimicry of life! my tears
Fall scalding over thee; in vain, in vain;
I press thee to my heart, whose hopes, and fears,
Are all thine own; thou dost not feel the strain.
Oh, thou dull image! wilt thou not reply
To my fond prayers, and wild idolatry?
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