THE PRIMROSE—GIRLHOOD. 
27 
And her voice, it murmurs lowly. 
As a silver stream may run, 
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 
And her smile, it seems half holy, 
As if drawn from thoughts more far 
Than our common jestings are. 
And if any poet knew her, 
He would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely madrigals. 
And if any painter drew her, 
He would paint her unaware, 
With a halo round the hair. 
And if reader read the poem, 
He would whisper, ‘ You have done a 
Consecrated "little Una/ 
And a dreamer (did you show him 
That same picture) would exclaim, 
‘ ’Tis my angel, with a name ! ’ 
And a stranger, when he sees her 
In the street even, smileth stilly, 
Just as you would at a lily. 
And all voices that address her, 
Soften, sleeken every word, 
As if speaking to a bird. 
And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes, 
With the thymy-scented grasses. 
And all hearts do pray, ‘ God love her,’ 
Aye, and certes, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure He doth. 
E. B. Browning. 
