Portrait and Reality

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.