CATARINA
FROM THE PORTUGUESE OF CAMOENS.
"Um mover d'olhos brando e piadoso."
AA movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.A gentle, timid motion, like young flowersBeneath the murmuring west wind undulating.A graceful, modest ardour—yet at timesMost grave and quiet majesty, as oneWho knows—that rarest knowledge—her own worth.
AA movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.A gentle, timid motion, like young flowersBeneath the murmuring west wind undulating.A graceful, modest ardour—yet at timesMost grave and quiet majesty, as oneWho knows—that rarest knowledge—her own worth.
AA movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.A gentle, timid motion, like young flowersBeneath the murmuring west wind undulating.A graceful, modest ardour—yet at timesMost grave and quiet majesty, as oneWho knows—that rarest knowledge—her own worth.
A
A movement of the soft eyes, slow and eloquent,A smile of sweet, yet of such chastened joy,'Twere easy to transform it to a tear.A gentle, timid motion, like young flowersBeneath the murmuring west wind undulating.A graceful, modest ardour—yet at timesMost grave and quiet majesty, as oneWho knows—that rarest knowledge—her own worth.
A childlike nature, index of a soulWhere goodness is intuitive—not put onTo gain false praises for a falser virtue.A bashful softness when she tells her love—A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyesAnd red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,Like to a temple of all holy things,Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,Enduring all with angel smiles of love.This, the celestial beauty of my Circé—This is the magic potion which has changedEarth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!
A childlike nature, index of a soulWhere goodness is intuitive—not put onTo gain false praises for a falser virtue.A bashful softness when she tells her love—A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyesAnd red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,Like to a temple of all holy things,Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,Enduring all with angel smiles of love.This, the celestial beauty of my Circé—This is the magic potion which has changedEarth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!
A childlike nature, index of a soulWhere goodness is intuitive—not put onTo gain false praises for a falser virtue.A bashful softness when she tells her love—A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyesAnd red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,Like to a temple of all holy things,Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,Enduring all with angel smiles of love.This, the celestial beauty of my Circé—This is the magic potion which has changedEarth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!
A childlike nature, index of a soulWhere goodness is intuitive—not put onTo gain false praises for a falser virtue.A bashful softness when she tells her love—A tremour as of guilt, with low-drooped eyesAnd red-rose cheek, did not her brow serene,Like to a temple of all holy things,Forbid the thought. A patient power of sufferance,Enduring all with angel smiles of love.This, the celestial beauty of my Circé—This is the magic potion which has changedEarth and all earthly sorrows to a Heaven!