When port is gained, and slowly now And run to thee, all faint and weak And be no more, as now, in a strange land, forlorn. THE DAGUERREOTYPE * BY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY This, then, is she, My mother as she looked at seventeen, When she first met my father. Young incredibly, Of disappointment, weariness, or tean Upon the childlike earnestness and grace Of the waiting face. Those close-wound ropes of pearl (Or common beads made precious by their use) Seem heavy for so slight a throat to wear; Even so, the loops and globes Of beaten gold And jet Hung, in the stately way of old, From the ears' drooping lobes On festivals and Lord's-day of the week, But startling the close gazer with the sense As a moth beats sidewise And up and over, and tries To skirt the irresistible lure Of the flame that has him sure, My spirit, that is none too strong to-day, Flutters and makes delay, Pausing to wonder at the perfect lips, Lifting to muse upon the low-drawn hair And each hid radiance there, But powerless to stem the tide-race bright, The vehement peace which drifts it toward the light |