Catarina
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS
A MOVEMENT of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,
A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,
'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.
A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers
Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating.
A graceful, modest ardour — yet at times
Most grave and quiet majesty, as one
Who knows — that rarest knowledge — her own worth.
A childlike nature, index of a soul
Where goodness is intuitive — not put on
To gain false praises for a falser virtue.
A bashful softness when she tells her love —
A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyes
And red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,
Like to a temple of all holy things,
Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,
Enduring all with angel smiles of love.
This, the celestial beauty of my Circe —
This is the magic potion which has changed
Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!
A MOVEMENT of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,
A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,
'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.
A gentle, timid motion, like young flowers
Beneath the murmuring west wind undulating.
A graceful, modest ardour — yet at times
Most grave and quiet majesty, as one
Who knows — that rarest knowledge — her own worth.
A childlike nature, index of a soul
Where goodness is intuitive — not put on
To gain false praises for a falser virtue.
A bashful softness when she tells her love —
A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyes
And red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,
Like to a temple of all holy things,
Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,
Enduring all with angel smiles of love.
This, the celestial beauty of my Circe —
This is the magic potion which has changed
Earth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!
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