Pure Love

With brow serene as Summer's cloudless morn, 
    Just ere the Sun rides up the throbbing East; 
    With eyes that bend meek-lidded on the least,
Yet never shrinking from the proudest born;
Lips from whose drawn bow flies no shaft of scorn; 
    Bearing and tread obedient to the stress 
    Of noble thought, instinct with queenliness,,
Her vesture floating like the wind-waved corn,
A seraph comes, fresh-hearted as the rain, 
    Or lily fragrant with its dew till noon;
Her white arm stretched to many a pure-eyed twain, 
    With the warm blessing of divine Love's boon;
Simple delights float round her everywhere, 
Like the mild odors from her half-bound hair.