Upon the Sight of the Portrait of a Female Friend
Upon those lips, those placid lips, I look
Nor grieve that they are still and mute as death;
I gaze—I read as in an Angel's Book,
And ask not speech from them, but long for breath.
Nor grieve that they are still and mute as death;
I gaze—I read as in an Angel's Book,
And ask not speech from them, but long for breath.
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