If on the closed curtain of my sight My fancy paints thy portrait far away, I see thee still the same, by night or day;
Crossing the crowded street, or moving bright'Mid festal throngs, or reading by the light Of shaded lamp some friendly poet's lay, Or shepherding the children at their play,—The same sweet self, and my unchanged delight.
But when I see thee near,
I recognize In every dear familiar way some
Perfection, and behold in April guise The magic of thy beauty that doth
Through many moods with infinite surprise,— Never the same, and sweeter with each change.
