To Taglioni.
Spirit of Grace, whose airy footsteps fall
So lightly! sure the looker-on must be
Most dull of fancy who doth not recall
Some sweet comparison to picture thee!
The white snow, drifting in its soundless showers,—
The young bird resting on a summer-bough,—
The south-wind bending down the opening flowers,—
The clear wave lifted with a gentle flow,—
Rippling and bright, advancing and retreating,
Curling around the rock its dancing spray,
Like a fair child whose kiss of gentle greeting
Woos a companion to make holiday,—
Such are the thoughts of beauty round me shed,
While pleased my eyes pursue thy light elastic tread.
