A Memory Of Ellen Terry’S Beatrice

A wind of spring that whirls the feignéd snows Of blossom-petals in the face, and flees: Elusive, made of mirthful mockeries, Yet tender with the prescience of the rose; A strain desired, that through the memory goes, Too subtle-slender for the voice to seize; A flame dissembled, only lit to tease, Whose touch were half a kiss, if one but knows.

She shows by Leonato’s dove-like daughter A falcon, by a prince to be possessed, Gay-graced with bells that ever chiming are; In azure of the bright Sicilian water, A billow that has rapt into its breast The swayed reflection of a dancing star!