A Face

If one could have that little head of hers     Painted upon a background of pale gold,     Such as the Tuscans early art prefers!     No shade encroaching on the matchless mould     Of those two lips, which should be opening soft     In the pure profile; not as when she laughs,     For that spoils all: but rather as if aloft     Yon hyacinth, she loves so, leaned its staffs     Burthen of honey-coloured buds to kiss     And capture twist the lips apart for this.     Then her lithe neck, three fingers might surround,     How it should waver on the, pale gold ground     Up to the fruit-shaped, perfect chin it lifts!     I know, Correggio loves to mass, in rifts     Of heaven, his angel faces, orb on orb     Breaking its outline, burning shades absorb:     But these are only massed there, I should think,     Waiting to see some wonder momently     Grow out, stand full, fade slow against the sky     (That s the pale ground youd see this sweet face by),     All heaven, meanwhile, condensed into one eye     Which fears to lose the wonder, should it wink.