Thine eyes’ blue tenderness, thy long fair hair,      And the wan lustre of thy features­ caught      From contemplation—where serenely wrought,   Seems Sorrow’s softness charm’d from its despair—   Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air      That—but I know thy blessed bosom fraught      With mines of unalloy’d and stainless thought—   I should have deem’d thee doom’d to earthly care.   With such an aspect, by his colours blent,      When from his beauty-breathing pen­cil born   (Except that thou hast nothing to repent),      The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn—   Such seemst thou—but how much more excellent!      With naught Remorse can claim—nor Virtue scorn.