Classic Poem

Is this the winsome spirit who has brought
Her rescuing youth to my beleaguered age?

— No, it is Juliet, Shakespeare's darling child,
Of Juliet's years, with Juliet's velvet eyes.
At that immortal casement, see, she stands,
Illumined by Verona's ivory night,
Her slender form suffused with innocence.
Down to her breast entrancing ringlets fall
That glow with darkness as her face with light.
Not yet she leans her cheek upon her hand,
A hand that rivals all the hands of Art,
And whose each finger rivals all the rest:
And, twixt them, spaces not less beautiful,
As if the sister hand, reluctantly
Unclasped, had left its molded memory.
See the sweet mouth, the frank Italian smile,
All joy, all love, the goal of Romeo's kiss;
The shapely chin, that like some rounded fruit
Waits the caresses of his cupped palm;
The eyes, that but a moment since have looked
With dewy wonder on the moonlit world,
Revealing, by their gentle eagerness,
The brave and modest ardor of her heart.

— No, this is Marguerite; but, some day, may be,
In one shall live both Juliet and she.